


Diapcember 2020

by sadistically_sweet



Series: Diapcember 2020 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Breastfeeding, Daddy Kink, Diaper humping, Diapers, Multi, Non-Sexual Age Play, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spanking, Wetting, messing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 27,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27853290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: So, it's time for Diapcember 2020! For the month of December, I will be doing the Diapcember challenge...one fic a day for the next 31 days, from a list of prompts that can be found here: https://sadieandmo.tumblr.com/post/635612144607592448/diapcember-any-interest
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Harry Potter/Severus Snape, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Loki/Steve Rogers, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Series: Diapcember 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039058
Comments: 90
Kudos: 176





	1. Day One: Wetting/Messing a diaper (Sherlock/John)

Sherlocks’ ears perked up. The flat was silent. Very silent. Even the street level noise (what little there was that lockdown had reduced it to) had dissipated to less than a murmur.

Normally, this would be the type of silence that Sherlock would dissolve into, retreating far back into his own thoughts, where nothing short of an explosion would bring him back out.

But.

 _But_.

This is not the type of silence to ignore when you have a Little, deeply regressed into their headspace, roaming about.

Sherlock looked up from his phone; “…Jawn?”  
  
Silence. Not even a naughty scuffle from a pair of mischievous feet.  
  
Sherlock put his phone in sleep mode and stood, quickly placing it in the pocket of his robe. “Jawn. Answer Daddy.”  
  
Again, no answer. Knowing John’s patterns when in headspace, silence usually meant one of two things: either he’d made a mess and was hiding/trying to clean it up before Sherlock noticed…or he’d gotten bored, crawled into some cramped space, and fallen asleep.  
  
Ah, fine. Sherlock needed a break from staring at his screen, anyway…at least, if he wanted the fuzzy black ring around his vision to fuck off, at least.  
  
Time for a toddler-hunt.

“Jawn, don’t make Daddy count,” he said as he made his way to the ‘playroom’, formally John’s bedroom. “One…”  
  
Now, here was where the chase was usually cut short, as Jawn hated any sort of timed limit. But again, there was no answer, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow in surprise as he came to a stop just before the doorway. “…Two.”  
  
Finally, a tiny voice drifted from the room; “…No coun’d,” it said, in quite possibly the saddest way that Sherlock had ever heard.

Sherlock frowned. That’s not what he’d been expecting. “Jawn, monkey, what’s the matter–?” he began as he stepped through the doorway…  
  
The smell hit him first, making him draw back and taking his breath in a short gasp. Heavy, Pungent. _Sour_.  
  
Familiar.  
  
Sherlock cupped his hand over his mouth and nose. “Oh, _Jawn…!_ ”  
  
Jawn looked up at him from where he was crouched on the floor, naked from the waist down, looking the very picture of misery with his reddened face covered in dried tears, while fresh ones still dribbled down his cheeks.  
  
The plastic bin with the nappy supplies had been taken out from under the bed, most of which had been pulled out and tossed aside haphazardly…except, for the wipes.

The package of wipes was sitting in front of Jawn, opened. Several wipes had been pulled out and crumpled, littering the floor like tents at an outdoor concert.  
  
…Several _dirty_ tents.  
  
Jawn, the poor thing, had another handful clutched fretfully in tightened fist as he desperately tried to clean up the remains of what must have been a terribly upset tummy.  
  
At least, the remains that clung to his bum and the backs of his legs in sticky, foul streaks…the rest of them were still in Jawns’ nappy, which had been removed and lay discarded on the carpet behind him.  
  
“Jawn, sweetheart…” Sherlock said as he crossed the room in two quick steps. “Why didn’t you come get me?”  
  
Jawn took one look at him…and immediately burst into fresh tears.

Sherlock was glad that he had his mouth covered…not just for the obvious reason, but so that Jawn couldn’t see him grinning like an idiot while stifling his laughter.  
  
Because he shouldn’t be laughing! It was a terribly sad thing, and poor little Jawn was so distraught and emotionally wrung out, and so ashamed and embarrassed by the whole thing and _no_ , there was nothing funny about this poor, sad, mucky pup who, despite being in tears, was still trying to clean himself up.

“No, no no no, sweetheart, don’t!” Sherlock lifted the collar of his shirt over his nose and quickly grabbed Jawns’ wrist before he could reach back and smear more mess all over himself. “Here, we’ll get you cleaned up and sit you in a nice bath, yes? Does that sound good?”  
  
Jawn dropped the clump of soiled, sticky baby wipes and fell against him, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlocks’ neck and wrapping his arms around him while babbling and crying.  
  
Sherlock sighed. So much for this robe, he thought. Oh, well…it’s not as if he hadn’t been covered in much, much worse substances than this, especially at the morgue.  
  
If someone were to ask what smelled worse, though…he didn’t know if he could choose between, say, a week old corpse, and this.

But, that was neither here nor there; not right now. No, right now, the only thing that mattered was getting his Jawn comfortable…  
  
And _clean_.  
  
Sherlock wriggled himself free from Jawns’ clutches, soothing him the entire time, of course. “Sh-sh-shhh, it’s alright, it’s fine. It’s only…poo,” he said as he knelt down in front of Jawn and pulled several clean wipes from the package to finish the little one’s slapdash job. “Why didn’t you come find me, sweetheart?? You know I’m not going to tell you off for an accident!”  
  
“I, I, I _diiiiid!_ ” Jawn wailed, and Sherlock once again caught his wrist before he could cover his face with his dirty hands.  
  
Oh….ooohhhh, oh no. “Oh, love…did Daddy not hear you?”  
  
“N-noooooo,” was the sad, hiccupped reply.  
  
“I am _so_ sorry, darling, this is my fault. Daddy messed up, not Jawn.”  
  
Jawns’ breath hitched and shook as he swallowed back a sob. “N-no’d m-me?” he sniffed, watching Sherlock carefully cleaning his hands.  
  
“No, not you. You’re only little, and little ones have accidents. Daddy’s very sorry for not paying attention.” Sherlock stretched and gave Jawn a quick kiss on the tip of his nose. “We’re going to get you in a nice, warm bath and you can play with your toys for an extra fifteen…no, twenty! Twenty minutes to play with your toys while Daddy sits in time-out.”  
  
A faint shadow of a smile tweaked Jawns’ lips. “Time-ou’d?…” he croaked.  
  
“Ye-es, time-out for Daddy.” Sherlock made quick work of the backs of Jawns’ thighs and gathered all of the soiled wipes up, along with the nappy, and tossed the whole mess into the nappy bin. He the stood and stripped off his robe, as well as the rest of Jawns’ clothes, and nudged the little one towards the bathroom. “Go on, go pick out some toys.”  
  
“…Aw’ll o'b them?” Jawn ventured cautiously.  
  
“If that’s what you want.”  
  
Jawns’ face brightened in an instant, with a smile on match. He happily toddled off to the bathroom, tickled pink at the idea that he would get to dump the entire basket of toys straight into the tub and play to his heart’s content.  
  
Sherlock smiled to himself, and waited until Jawn had disappeared into the bathroom before carrying his armload of laundry to the wash.  
  
So. It had, _technically_ , take an explosion (of sorts) to draw him out of his mind palace.  
  
Technically.


	2. Day Two: Mental Regression (Loki/Steve)

‘Patient’ was not a word that came to anyone’s mind when considering the God of Mischief and Chaos…at least, not to those who did not have the privilege of knowing him well. Those that did, those special few that caught his attention, those he deemed special…they knew differently.  
  
They knew 'Mama’. 

To the precious few that were allowed to know That Name, Mama was patient. Mama was kind. Mama had a gentle hand and a soft voice that could melt away any bad thoughts and feelings and leave nothing but the glowing sense of safety, comfort, and warmth while being cradled in her arms.  
  
Mama was good at this, and knew it. She would often use it to her advantage, especially on those who mistakenly thought they were immune to Mama’s magic, and who often turned out to the most susceptible.  
  
…Such as a particularly repressed, stick-in-the-mud American soldier, who was so bottled-up that Loki could swear he could hear the cork creaking whenever Steve took a bloody step. 

In fact, within minutes of meeting the man, Loki had firmly decided that Mama would be the one to pop that cork. 

Loki had been expecting a fight with this one; he had seen firsthand that Steve Rogers was a tough nut to crack, even with people that were considered to be the mans’ friends. Always with the brave, stoic face that let nothing show, never letting the facade slip, never a hair out of place, never a twitch of the lips that betrayed anything felt beneath the surface. 

But _oh_ , once Loki had his hands on him…was that surface ever easy to crack _._

It had easy to see that the soldier was struggling _._ With what, exactly, was unimportant to Loki…it always hurt Mama’s heart to see any of her dumplings in pain, no matter what the reason, and seeing the tight, pinched look on Steves’ face made her want to scoop him up and cuddle him to her bosom and promise to fix anything and everything wrong with her little one. 

She had sat down on the couch with him that day, and smiled at the startled look on his face when he noticed who it was, even though as far as Steve knew _,_ it was only Loki–he didn’t know ‘Mama’ yet _.  
_

_…Yet.  
_

Loki angled himself until he faced Steve, resting his chin on his shoulder as it was propped on the back of the couch, exuding calm. “Oh, _Steve_ ,” he said…no _,_ cooed. His ‘Mama’ voice. “You poor thing…what can Mama do to make it better?”

Steve’s mouth gaped open and his eyes grew comically wide as he sputtered several half-words that were meant to be coherent sentences. “Uh, wha-…I mean, what?! The fuck–?!”

Loki rolled his eyes…Midgardians could be incredibly slow. “You heard me. Come tell me what’s wrong,” Mama said as she patted her lap, inviting him over.

He was still goggling at her as if she’d grown a second head. Which…she _could_ , technically speaking, but she hadn’t.

“Steve,” she purred again. “Dumpling…let Mama fix it.”

Steve finally shut up. He stared at her intently, and for a long, long time. 

And then…he went to Mama. 

It was just that easy.

~~~ 

That had been some years before, and as feisty and pigheaded as her little soldier could be at times, Steve had taken to being one of Mama’s dumplings like ducks took to water. And Mama couldn’t have been happier. 

Especially at times like now, as she was getting him settled for bed. Cuddled up in her lap, nursing, while zipped up in his favorite pair of footed jammies and wrapped nice and snug in his blanky as she slowly rocked him. 

He was nearly asleep. She bent forward and ghosted a soft kiss on his forehead, and smiled when his face crinkled up at the touch. 

Yes, Mama had all the patience in the world for her little dumplings.


	3. Day Three: Naptime/bedtime (John/Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Day 3 request: Sherlock is fussy because he is tired, and doesn't want to go down for a nap."

“No, I don’t need to.”  
  
John looked up from his phone and frowned. “I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“I said no, I don’t need to,” Sherlock intoned again, his voice slightly muffled from the pillow that he had his face buried in.  
  
John was still just as confused; “I…didn’t say anything? At all?” He looked around the flat to see if there might have been literally anyone else that he could have possibly been talking to…seeing as how a lot of their friends (and most enemies) had a habit of walking in unannounced.

“You were thinking it.” Sherlock, who was currently laying face down, flat on the couch, turned just enough to glare at John with one singular light blue eye. “Just because I’m lying here doesn’t mean I need to nap.”  
  
Ah. So that was it. John rolled his eyes and returned to his phone. “Well, I never said you needed to.”   
  
Sherlock re-buried his face. “Because I don’t.”  
  
“Because you don’t,” John repeated. “Because big boys don’t need naps, huh?”  
  
Sherlock snapped around and sat up on his elbows, glaring. “No.” 

John smirked to himself. “And havin’ a lie-down doesn’t mean you’re tired.”  
  
“That’s what I’ve just said, isn’t it!?”  
  
“Don’t shout.”   
  
Sherlock snorted, then flung himself back into his pillow with a satisfyingly loud _*thwump*_.  
  
John, however, refused to react in the way he knew Sherlock was most likely after. “…Why you over there all by yourself for, though?”   
  
Sherlock was still for a moment, while he was processing what he’d just heard, and why it didn’t sound like he was being told off. He sat up on his knees, hair flopping down over his eyes, and considered John for a moment. “…What?” he asked, without anymore heat behind his words.  
  
John looked over and smiled at him. “Why you over there by yourself? Do big boys not like a good cuddle either?" 

And that, was that. At the very moment the word ‘cuddles’ left John’s lips, he could see the mood shift in Sherlocks’ eyes, as well as the rest of his features growing soft around the edges.  
  
Ah, the drop into headspace was such a sweet thing to witness.  
  
Unaware of his own actions, Sherlock reached for the drawstring of his pajamas at his waist, and began fiddling with it. "Some time'th,” he said, with a hint of a lisp…a lisp that usually showed up when he was tired or Little.  
  
Especially when he was both.  
  
“Well, let’s make this one of those times.”  
  
Sherlock stopped winding his drawstring around his finger. “Righ’d now?” he asked in that adorable tiny voice of his that made John go all fuzzy inside.  
  
“Yeah,” he said with a quiet laugh, and patted his lap. “Come keep me company and have a lie-down at the same time. Kill two birds with one stone." 

That was all the invitation that Sherlock needed, as the next thing John knew, the little detective was scrabbling off the couch (and nearly tumbling head over heels in the process, but before John could leap of his chair to catch him, he’d already righted himself) and crawling into John’s lap. "Killin’ bir’s i'sh ba'h,” he said matter-of-factly, and squirmed around until he was situated in the perfect position…tucked in the crook of his Daddy’s arm.

“Smart boy, you’re right.” John kissed the top of his curly head, and didn’t even mind all that much when he came very close to getting clocked in the nose when Sherlock stretched. “Daddy was just being silly.”  
  
“Sh'illy,” Sherlock agreed. He leaned back and said his head on John’s shoulder, and reached for his phone.  
  
John huffed a laugh…of course he would. He handed it over anyway; “Just hold it where I can see it, too.”  
  
“No p'omi'shes.”  
  
“I’ll put you back on the couch, aaaaall by yourself.”  
  
“…I p'omi'sh.”  
  
“Good lad.”


	4. Day Four: Diaper leaking (Steve/Bucky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "daddy Steve and little Bucky? 🥺 Bucky upset that he peed too much and leaked and Steve comforts him maybe?"

There were days when Steve would literally go down on one knee and thank God…or whoever else was listening or cared up there, because after everything he’d seen over the years, he wouldn’t put it past chance that Earth was just sitting in some sort of massive alien petri dish for some extraterrestrial kids’ science fair project.

But anyway, he would go down on one knee and thank anyone who was listening, that he had Bucky back. His Little Bucky. Or, his once-big-then-little-then-bigger-again-but-now-mostly-Little Bucky.

There were also days when Steve would question whether or not that he was enough for Bucky…if he was what Bucky needed to heal.

He’d walk around all melancholy and droopy, liked a kicked dog, until Bucky would seek him out and toddle up to him for a hug or to be picked up, and the way that he would look at Steve would snap him out of it and realize that he was being a dumbass and that he need to pick his baby before there was a super-soldier-sized fit of fuck-off-sized proportions took place.  
  
So, Steve would pick him up, pop him on his hip, give him a big ol’ smooch on the cheek, and go on about their day. 

Most days, though, were right in the middle of those two extremes. Most were better. Some were a little worse. Most had patches of both.  
  
Today was one of the ‘both’ days.  
  
It started out pretty smooth. Bucky’d had a good morning, and had let Steve get him through their morning routine of waking up, getting his diaper changed, then getting dressed and making breakfast…hell, Bucky had been in a good enough mood that he wanted to help with the cooking. And Steve, being the soft touch that he is (when it comes to babies, always), let him whip up the scrambled eggs. It had gone really well, actually.  
  
Same story all through play time and lunch, and he’d even gone down for a nap with relatively little fuss.  
  
…And that’s where the day went a little sideways.  
  
Usually, when Bucky went down for a nap, the little guy woke himself up about thirty minutes (maaaybe forty-five minutes on a good day) into it and would come search Steve out, then park himself in his lap and doze for another ten, fifteen minutes while he got good and awake.

Today, it was nearly an hour and a half past Bucky’s normal naptime when Steve realized his Switch (last year’s Christmas present from Nat. Priciest ‘gag-gift’ ever but the joke’s on her; he loved it) was at 20% battery life, and that Bucky wasn’t crawling into his lap and begging for a turn.

Whoops.  
  
Steve quickly docked it in it’s charger, and went to go check on Buck.

The door to their bedroom was still cracked, the way he always left it for the little guy when he was napping, and Steve eased it open and stuck his head in. “…Buck?”  
  
The Bucky-shaped lump laying in their bed didn’t move, so Steve turned on the light and entered the room. “Hey, it’s time to get up, baby,” he said, reaching down to gently brush the hair back from Bucky’s forehead (and to check for a fever, just in case…and thankfully, there wasn’t). “You been sleepin’ real good, huh?”

Bucky finally stirred at the sound of Steve’s voice, and cracked his eyes open. “N'nn,” he mumbled as he stretched.  
  
“Oh yeah?” Steve chuckled, and pulled back Bucky’s ‘Blue’s Clues’ blanket; normally when Bucky took a nap, it was on top of the sheets and comforter while he only slept under one of his baby blankets. Mainly to keep that distinction between naptime and bedtime. “Did you have good dreams…oh,” Steve paused. “Well, looks like you did, buddy.”

“Huh?…” Bucky rubbed his eyes and sat up, and… _immediately_ noticed that Something Did Not Feel Right. He looked down at himself, and discovered that his onesie–which was a soft, light blue before his nap–was now stained dark from the waist down as he lay in the center of a damp, smelly puddle of quickly-cooling wee.  
  
“You were sleeping hard, baby…you just sprung a leak.” Steve sounded largely unbothered…after all, when you’re taking care of babies, pee is just part of the territory. Babies pee, and babies wear diapers, so diapers get wet and sometimes leak, circle of life, etc. 

“S'alright, baby,” he said as he picked a sticky, clammy Bucky up out of bed and carried him to the changing table. “We’ll clean you up and you can play games while Daddy changes the–” Steve stopped, mid-sentence, as he placed Bucky down on his back. 

Bucky, his little man, was in tears. 

Big, thick tears dribbled out of the corners of Bucky’s eyes even as he fought hard to swallow them back, making his throat bob painfully.  
  
“Aw…aw, Bucky, baby, what’s wrong?!” Steve scooped him right back up and held him to his chest, nevermind the state of his clothes. “What happened, big boy??“ 

Bucky hid his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, and Steve could feel the little pats of warms tears dripping onto his shoulder.  
  
"W-we’d,” Bucky snuffled.  
  
“You’re wet, is that it?” Steve slowly rocked him from side to side and rubbed is back reassuringly. “That’s okay…it’s okay, baby doll, it happens. You were sleepin’ good, that’s all.” 

Bucky sniffled wetly, but he didn’t reply. But then again, he wasn’t very wordy when he was a bub, anyway.  
  
“Can Daddy clean you up now, big boy?” Steve tilted his chin down and murmured in Bucky’s ear; “Hm? And then we can play a game before supper…would you like that? Cause I’d like that,” he added, and kissed the only part of Buck he could easily reach at this angle..the tip of his ear.  
  
Bucky sniffled again, but this time was followed with a quiet “Y-y'ah.”  
  
Steve grinned. God, he had the cutest baby ever. “You wanna play the animal game?” he asked, smiling as he gently laid Bucky back on the changing table and unsnapped his onesie. “You wanna help me fix my island, yeah? You’re better at catching the spiders.”  
  
Bucky gave him a smile, watery smile. “Y'ah,” he said. “Spi'yers bi'de.”  
  
Steve snorted; “Yeah, yeah, the spiders always bite me,” he said playfully, and bent down to kiss Bucky’s belly just to make him squirm and hear that raspy giggle of his.  
  
Thank God for days like this, he thought.


	5. Day Five: Sissification (Loki/Tony)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Loki/Tony for Day 5? 🥺"

“There we are, darling…wait, no-no! Sit still for Mama!” Loki grasped Tony’s wrist mere moments before he could he could rub his face and ruin all of her hard, yet carefully-detailed work.

“B’aaaaaaah!” Tony fussed as he tried to pull free. It wasn’t his fault…that stupid little brush that Mama was using on him made his beard itch!

Loki gasped and put her hand over her heart, feigning shock. “What, you don’t want to be Mama’s pretty little princess anymore???”

“Bu’d, um, bu’d Mama,” Nat asked, crawling up behind Loki on the bed and draping herself over her shoulder; “Bu’d I y’am your pre’ddy prin’shess.”

“You are, darling.” Loki turned and kissed Natashas’ cheek. “But Mama can have more than one pretty princess.”

“Bu’d Tony ha’sh a beard.”

“He does, and it’s perfectly suited for royalty–Tony, that’s not for chewing, dumpling!” Loki snatched the make-up brush from Tony’s little mitts just as he was about to stuff it in his waiting mouth, making him squawk angrily.

Loki sighed, and then reached into the open make-up kit sitting next to her and began to dig around. “Wait, here…!” she said, fishing out an older (but clean) brush that had never been her favorite, even when it was new. She handed it to Tony; “Have that one, Bambi.”

Nat took the opportunity to climb up and perch on Loki’s shoulders. “Hi’sh Dadd’ee doe’shn le’d him chew on sh’tuff,” she said, folding her arms on top of his head and resting her chin on them,

“Maybe, but his Daddy isn’t here, is he?” Loki cooed. Now that Tony was good and distracted by crushing bristles in between his teeth, Mama decided to leave any lip stain or gloss for last, and selected one of her eye palettes instead. “Which one would suit him best, do you think?” she asked, holding it up for Nat to see.

Nat tapped her lips with her finger. “Mmmm…d’ish one,” she said, pointing to a shimmery pale lilac.

“Ooo, exotic…that’s going to make those pretty brown eyes glow, isn’t it?” Loki set the palette aside and reached for Tony’s hips, sliding him closer. “Are you going to be a good little dumpling for Mama and sit still while she pretties you up, hm?”

Tony gave her a shy, sweet smile…despite the wad of wet, slobbery bristles poking out of his mouth. “Ma’!” he said, taking the very soaking wet brush and swiping it along Loki’s cheek while Nat giggled. “G’wooooooss!”

“Uh-huh, thank you darling, that’s very sweet,” she said, discreetly wiping her cheek along her shoulder…and then grabbed Natasha’s ankles in a vice-like grip; “…Now it’s Nattie’s turn!” she cackled as Nat squealed and twisted like a stuck pig. Loki held her foot up for Tony; “There, make her foot pretty!”

“NO! NO NO NO NO, MAMA! LE’GGO ME!” Nat shrieked but, try as she might to wriggle and twist and yank and bite her way free, there was nothing she could do as Tony, with a devious little grin to match Mama’s, took his drooly brush and painted a slimy, cold wet stripe along the bottom of Nat’s foot.

“Y’UUUUUUUUGGGGGG!” she screamed and kicked out with both feet. This time, Mama let her loose and laughed as she scrambled off the bed and ran from the room, squealing and scrubbing her foot along the carpet the entire way.

Loki waited while she and Tony both calmed down…putting make-up on a squirmy Little one was hard enough without a case of the giggles, let alone one still full of belly laughs and happy tears.

Good thing she hadn’t done the mascara yet, either. Loki wiped the tears of mirth from her cheeks and tilted her head to look at Tony, who had fallen over at some point during their obnoxious laughing fit and stayed that way. “C-can Mama finish your face now, dumpling?” she asked, still slightly breathless. 

Tony grinned up at her and waved his brush (still clutched in fist) “N’ah!”

“Hm, Nat might be a bit grumpy with us for awhile. Maybe we can try Steve first.”

“Steeeeeee’b,” Tony nodded, and let Loki sit him up.

“…But only _after_ we finish Princess Tony.”


	6. Day Six: Pull-ups (Steve/Bucky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hi its the anon again that submitted for day 4 and just now with Steve and Bucky
> 
> I forgot to add and you don't have to of course if you don't want to, but since the prompt is pull ups maybe you could incorporate some omo (pee desperation) !!! Sorry I might be a weirdo but I love that stuff
> 
> Maybe little Bucky is potty training and he's wearing his pull ups and he gets desperate trying to be a "big boy" for Steve and hold it"

With dinner both in the oven and on top of the stove (and with nothing in danger of burning anytime soon), Steve peeked his head into the living room to check on Bucky.  
  
It had been quiet, but then again, his little guy was always pretty quiet and rarely got up to no good…so it being too quiet didn’t always mean he had a disaster waiting for him.  
  
But still, Steve checked. Because he liked to check.

Bucky was still in the living room, standing in front of the TV in nothing but his Blue’s Clues t-shirt and a pull-up while watching, you guessed it, his favorite blue puppy bouncing around and leaving her paw prints everywhere.

Steve smiled. He wasn’t really a fan of pull-ups per’ say, because they leaked _so much_ worse than a fully-loaded diaper ever did, but seeing little hints of Buck’s chubby cheeks peeking out of the bottoms was pretty damn cute…plus, he may or may not have forgotten to order more diapers, and may or may not have used the last one on Bucky last night.  
  
And speaking of leaks, he also noticed that the sippy of apple juice Bucky was holding on to with both hands like it was for dear life, was nearly empty. Again. As in, this had been the fourth time Steve had refilled it, and that had been ten minutes ago. “Hey, Bucky? Baby?”

It took Steve three more tries and a commercial break to Bucky’s attention, having to _slighty_ raise the volume of his voice each time (but without yelling. For one, Bucky didn’t do well with yelling and two, he didn’t want to yell at his baby for anything in the first place), but finally managed to get him to turn around and look at him. “You okay in there, big boy?”

Bucky nodded without taking the spout of his cup out of his mouth.  
  
“Do you need to go potty? You’ve been slugging back that juice like it’s going out of style, punk-face.”

Bucky frowned and shook his head, sippy-cup included. _No_ , he didn’t have to go potty, Stee'b. Not when Blue was back on and Josh was asking for help!

Steve snorted–maybe he should just ask Loki to turn into a blue dog so Stubborn Britches over there would listen to him for once. “Just make sure you go when you need to go, Buck-Buck. Your big boy pants don’t hold as much as your Pampers do.”

Bucky grunted and waved him off with his elbow.  
  
“Brat,” Steve muttered, and ducked back into the kitchen.

Bucky ignored him and refocused on Blue and Josh’s pajama party, hoping that Josh would read just *one* more bedtime story…but no, now Josh was putting his guitar away and telling everyone night-night. Bucky pouted; he was really hoping for one more story!  
  
But he guess that he could go potty now, now that Blue was over. He didn’t tell Steve that he’d had to go for awhile now, because Steve would make him go and he would miss seeing what Blue was telling Josh with her clues! And if he missed _that_ part, he might as well have missed the whole show! 

He felt another twinge and pressed his thighs together. Okay, now he was going to…oh, what? More Blue was comin’ on?! And it was an episode with Stee'b?!?  
  
…He could hold it. He had never seen an episode with Stee'b before.  
  
Bucky sucked on the spout of his sippy-cup despite the fact that it had long since been empty, and watched the opening of the show as he pressed his thighs together and shifted from foot to foot.  
  
Maybe it would help if he sat down. 

Bucky went down to his knees, and then plopped his bottom on the carpet. There, that was better.  
  
Oh, and here was Stee'b! And Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper, but they don’t even have babies yet! And Stee'b is trying to find out what Blue needs with bubbles and soap and–!  
  
Oh. Uh-oh. 

Blue was gonna get a bath. And Stee'b was turning on the water for her.  
There was a painful twinge between Bucky’s legs, and he squirmed uncomfortably…he had to go. **Now**.  
  
He dropped his cup and tried to hurry, but by the time he got to his feet he was far, far, far too late, and the next thing he knew, there was a hot flood of pee filling his pull-up and trickling down his legs. 

Oh. Oh, no. Oh no, no no no no no no.  
  
Bucky could only stand there, wee streaming down his legs, soaking his socks and audibly piddling out onto the carpet in an ever-expanding stain.  
  
Oh, _no_. 

It felt like forever before the last dribbles soaked into his socks as he stood there, knock-kneed in his warm, smelly puddle. Oh no. Stee'b was gunna be so mad!  
  
Bucky took a step towards the bathroom because maybe, _maybe_ there was a chance he could clean up before Steve came and found him, but the moment he went to move his foot, the carpet squished and all he felt was pee squirting up between his toes. 

…That, was the last straw on the already fragile camel’s back. Bucky’s vision went blurry as tears welled up in his eyes and dripped down his cheeks as he took a deep, shaky breath and opened his mouth to wail–  
  
“ **DAAAAA’…!** ” 

There was a clatter from the kitchen as Steve dropped the spoon for whatever he was stirring and bolted out of the room, looking for Bucky. “What happened!?” he asked, hurrying over to a sobbing Bucky and looking him up and down to see where he was hurt. There was nothing obvious that he could see, so Steve knelt down and–  
  
Oh. 

“Aw, baby,” Steve sighed as he walked over and pulled Bucky into a hug.“You tried to make it, huh?” he asked, kissing the top of his head.  
  
“T-try,” Bucky snuffled. Steve could feel him wiping his snotty face all over his t-shirt. “Yeah, you did. Just too little for big boys pants today, that’s all.”  
  
Bucky only nodded, further smearing his nose all over Steve. “Dun’ be ma’h…”  
  
Steve blew a puff of air between his lips…man, his heart was still pounding from hearing Bucky screech like that. “I’m not mad, baby. Don’t ever, _ever_ think that I’m gonna be mad over accidents. You tried to go; that’s all that matters.”

Bucky hiccuped and gave Steve’s waist a squeeze. There was no urgent need to tell him that he waited a little longer than he should have. 

“You need a bath, little boy.” Steve lifted his soggy little one onto his hip, ignoring the unpleasant squishing sound; “And then you know what we’re gonna do?”  
  
Bucky scrubbed at his eyes with his fist as he sat up and looked at Steve; “Wha’d?”  
  
“We’re gonna text Tony’s Daddy and see if he’ll do one of his portal things so we can borrows some diapers.”


	7. Day Seven: Sucking on a pacifier (John/Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Sherlock/ John

God, another long night of no sleep.  
  
Sherlock was always a poor sleeper anyway, and although being in headspace made it somewhat easier to get him to go down for the night, it wasn’t always a sure thing that he would _stay_ asleep. A good eighty percent of the time, he was up and bursting with energy well before the sun was up. 

But there was only so long that energy could last on little to no sleep and, by mid afternoon, there was usually a crash that left Sherlock in a fussy, clingy, bleary-eyed state that nobody could appease…except for one thing. 

His dummy. 

It was naturally soothing, of course, and with Sherlock having an overwhelming need for oral fixation, it also gave him one central focus for all of the restless, pent up energy that sleepiness nights left him with. 

Get him to take a dummy, and he was out within the hour. Half that, if you threw in bum pats over his nappy.

But, as he never let anyone ever, _ever_ forget…Sherlock was smart. More than just smart. Observant. 

Which means that the dummy/bum pat combo had an expiration date, and it was all too soon that Sherlock had it figured out and began refusing his dummy (or any cuddles, at that!) whenever he became suspicious that they were trying to get him to nap. 

It was to the extent that, if he knew he was tired and saw anyone–be it Daddy, Nana, Mycroft, or Greg–approaching him with a dummy, there was no limit to the stomping, crying, howling, or pushing the away. Once, he literally ran from Greg and hid away for an entire, panic-filled afternoon until John showed up to pick him up.  
  
…They still had no idea where he’d holed up in all that time. Not even a spanking for running from Greg and scaring all of them for hours had loosened those stubborn lips. 

So, here they were, with Sherlock strapped into his booster seat (to keep from having a repeat case of the Missing Detective) and fighting sleep with every fiber of his cantankerous being while John sat at the kitchen table, defeated, with his elbow propping his chin up and a dummy hooked over one finger. 

Sherlock, still red-faced and snuffly from the tantrum he’d thrown over aforementioned dummy (and the smacked thigh it had earned him), sat and scrubbed at his poor red-raw eyes with his fists.

John narrowed his eyes. Nope. Not buying the ‘poor baby’ act just yet. “You know, this would literally be one thousand times easier if you would just–”

“ _NO NA’B!_ ” Sherlock screeched again, setting off a fresh wave of tears and hiccups. 

God, deliver him. John sighed and slumped back in his chair. He needed to get this kid to take a dummy, he thought as he rubbed his hand over his face. Like, right now. After all this screaming, maybe he could get him to take a bottle. “Do you want your–”

“ _NO CU’B!_ ”

Jesus Christ. John pushed back from the table and hopped out of his seat. He had to move around a bit. He had to think. They’d been at this for more than an hour, and they were both at their limits. 

John hooked his fingers behind his head and stretched as he looked over the rest of the kitchen, which was an absolute disaster…even the shopping from earlier still sat in its bags on the counter, as he and Sherlock had barely made it back into the flat before all hell had broken loose. 

Okay, you know what…sure. He was going to take the time to put up the shopping. That would give him and the baby both the time and space to calm the fuck down. He started with the cold bag, and carried it to the fridge to put away; Butter, eggs. There was the milk. And another milk. And a third. Some ham. Bacon. Okay, there was that bag done. 

John went about in the same way with the next two bags, calmly putting things away as he went from one cabinet to the next. And while he didn’t turn around to look, he could feel a pair of eyes on him, watching. 

Good. That was loads better than screaming. 

Last bag. Okay. Dried pasta. Lentils. Box of cereal. Smaller box of…

Wait. 

John looked at the small box in his hand…it was the apple cider mix that Sherlock had begged for in the shop. Because it was his favorite, and they only had it out for a limited time during the year. 

It…was his favorite. 

His. Favorite. 

_Bingo_.

He turned to where Sherlock could see him, but didn’t look up to meet his gaze. no, John stood there, and in full view of the baby, opened the box and took out the small, white paper pouch inside. 

Sherlock, while visibly confused, had gone quiet and was now very curious about what his Daddy was doing with his spicy apple juice.

John smiled to himself as he opened the pouch and gave it a sniff; “Oh…oh yeah, that’s _good_ stuff,” he said, and then slipped Sherlock’s dummy in his own mouth. 

Sherlock had gone stiff at the sight of the dummy, expecting another round, but when he’d seen what John had done instead, he relaxed. He was also increasingly intrigued.. 

John gave it a swirl of his tongue, getting it good and wet before popping it back out…and then _dipped_ _it_ into the cider mix.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. 

John pulled the dummy out again and held it up, giving Sherlock a nice, long look at the powder-coated nipple, and then stuck it back in his mouth. “MmmMmM!” he hummed, letting his eyes roll back in his head and sagging a bit on his knees, making a proper show about it. 

…He could only hope that Sherlock took the bait. 

Sherlock twisted in his booster, and reached for him. “Da’yee, my?” he asked, his fingers grasping at air. “My? My, p’ea’sh? My??”

John finally met his gaze, his eyes widening in feigned surprise. “Oh? You, you wan’ sh’ome?” He popped the dummy out of his mouth, and held the bag up to show him; “You want some of this?”

Sherlock nodded. “P’ea’sh?”

“Aw, such good manners! Yes, that’s how we ask for things!” John stepped back over and let Sherlock watch him dip the dummy back into the mix, and then held it out. Better to let him come for it on his own terms instead of forcing it and starting back at square-fucking-one. 

Sherlock peered at the dummy, going a bit cross-eyes, as it was inches from his face. He looked up at John, watching for a reaction. 

John smiled, and dipped his head at it; “Go on, it’s all yours if you want it…otherwise I’m just gonna take it for myself,” he added, and slowly started moving the dummy back towards his mouth…

“No! Noooo, Da’da! Mines!” Sherlock grasped John’s wrist and without a moment’s hesitation, pulled it back and directed it into his open mouth. 

John couldn’t help but laugh…oh my _God_ , that had to be the one of the cutest thing’s he’d ever seen! “Good boy!” he cheered as he leaned over and kissed the top of Sherlock’s curls, while his little boy (happily!) suckled away; “Good job! You want more?!” he asked, and held out the little bag of magic mix. 

He was gonna have to tell Greg and Mycroft that he’d found a new trick.


	8. Day Eight: Comforted by a friend/lover/caregiver (Sherlock/John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Struggling lil jawn being comforted after a really rough week leaves him aching and limping even in headspace? For day 8"

John should be grateful. He knew this for a fact, and indeed he was…he knew how much of a privilege it was that he could work from home and see patients through video conferences, instead of being face to face and oh his feet for hours upon hours upon hours in a veritable warzone, with no break in sight.

And he should be especially grateful, if he took into account his time as a field medic in a _literal_ warzone.

He should be grateful, and he was.

But…there were so goddamn _many._

So many people calling in because the hospitals stay full, worried and scared and tired and stretched to their limits, because they were having chest pains or back pains or throat pains, belly pains, or they had a fever and they were terrified because they’d been _so_ careful, but…!

One bloke had called him because he had a broken, possibly (probably) infected tooth and was in so much pain he could hardly speak, but his dentist (or any dentist) said it was a non-emergency and the man was fucking desperate to find anyone, dentist or not, to just cut the fucking thing out and be done with it.

…And it was all. day. long. Everyday.

It was so much. But he should still be grateful that he wasn’t a surgeon. He’d be a right fucking twat if he was going to sit and groan on about how hard it was to sit and talk to webcams for ten hours straight, when there were nurses on their feet for fifteen or more.

So, when he finally came out of the old bedroom and Sherlock looked up from his laptop and asked him “Are you alright,” his answer should have been “Sure, what’s for dinner?”

It should have been, but it wasn’t.

He tried to answer, he really did…but the moment he opened his mouth to speak, his throat clenched painfully, and no words came. He froze.

Then, he took one look at Sherlock, who was becoming more concerned by the second…and dissolved. That was it, that was all it took, a single question, a simple glance, and now all he could do was cry like a baby.

He heard the harsh scrape of a chair on the floor as Sherlock got up and hurried over to him. “What, what’s happened?! Are you okay?!” he asked as he took John’s chin in his hand and raised his face to look him over.

“I, I, I c-can’t…” John stammered through his blubbering; “I c-can’t h-elp them a-all!”

Sherlock’s face softened from one of frantic worry, to understanding. “Oh…oh, Jawn, no,” he said, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him to his chest. “That’s not your job, monkey. You can’t help all of them; that’s too much for just one person.”

Jawn clung to Sherlock the way a drowning man clings to anything solid that he finds. “B-but I, I’m s-supposed to…!”

“You do as much as you can, and then some,” Sherlock interrupted. “And that’s all you can do.” He stepped back and took Jawn’s chin in his hand again, and gently made him meet his gaze; “…You need a break,” he said softly.

“I can’t–” Jawn started to protest, already thinking of the dozen calls he was to cover tomorrow, but Sherlock only shushed him. “You can,” he said, and kissed Jawn’s forehead. “I’ll take care of it. And of you. Starting right now,” he added, and lifted Jawn into his arms.

Jawn smiled…it was a weak, tired smile, but it was still a smile. “How?”

Sherlock snorted; “By putting you in a nappy first, duh.”

Jawn laughed at that…his Daddy could be hilarious at the most unexpected times. He laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder as he carried him towards their bedroom. “I mean the calls…”

“I said I would take care of it.”

“And I asked how.”

“By having Mycroft take care of it.” Sherlock carefully set Jawn down on their bed; “Arms up, sweetheart,” he told him as he knelt down to pull out the bin of nappy supplies from under the bed.

Jawn, already visibly relaxing, did as he was told. “I’m hungry,” he said.

“I imagine you are…” Sherlock worked Jawn’s jumper up over his head and tossed it aside; “since you skipped lunch. Tell Daddy what you want, and he’ll make it happen–lie back for me, little biscuit.”

“Um…chi’bs?” Jawn followed every instruction as Sherlock stripped him of his clothes and went about changing him into a nappy, feeling every worry, every fear, every stress slip away until there was…

Nothing, he thought as Daddy sat him up. There was nothing to worry about. Daddy was here.

“Monkey…?” Sherlock asked again, peering at him. “Did you hear me?”

“Hmmm?” Jawn hummed blinking up at him. He’d heard the murmur of Daddy’s voice, but couldn’t remember a single specific word.

Sherlock chuckled. “Froggies or duckies tonight, little love,” he asked again, holding up two pairs of pajamas for Jawn to pick from.

“Mmm, f’wog.”

“Good decision,” Sherlock said, putting the other pair back. “And that is going to be the last one you’ll have to make for the entire weekend.”

“I’d is?” Jawn automatically held his arms up, before Sherlock could even ask him to.

“It is.” Sherlock slipped the soft, stretchy onesie over Jawn’s head. “Because for the next two days, you’re only going to be Daddy’s small, teeny-tiny baby.”

Jawn popped his head out, his hair mussed and sticking out every which direction in charming, boyish way that Sherlock loved. “I y’am?” he asked, grinning up at his Daddy.

“You are.” Sherlock reached down and did the snaps, and used a sneaky finger to make sure Jawn’s nappy was nice and snug. “And the first thing Daddy is going to do for his tiny baby, is make him a bottle while we wait for our chips to arrive.”

“Lu’b chi’bs,” Jawn said, and reached out to be picked up, which Sherlock did.

“Me too,” he said, and kissed Jawn on the cheek as he carried him out of the room.


	9. Day Nine: Wearing a onesie/footie (Greg/Mycroft)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "“ Mycroft in this for today’s prompt plz 👉👈 “

“Please.”

“No.”

“…Please? Just one time?”

“…No.”

“C’mon,” Greg chided. “One time for Daddy? Pleeeeeease?”

“Noooooooo.”

“That was close enough! I’ll take it!”

Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest in a huff, and positively _glowered_ at Greg.

Although…it didn’t quite have the usual punch as it usually does, since no one can be taken all that seriously in a hooded cow onesie, complete with squishy horns that made ‘mooo’ noises when you pressed the, 

And speaking of ‘moo’ noises, Greg was trying his damnedest to get Mycroft to make one. “How can such an adorable face look so grumpy???” he asked, and reached out to pinch Mycroft’s cheek…then jerked his hand back as he came dangerously close to getting nipped for his trouble. “Ooo, touch-eeEeE!” Greg fussed, and wagged the same finger at him. “No-no!”

Mycroft took a big, deep breath, making his chest puff out…and blew a very rude (and wet!) raspberry at him. 

“Oi! Not nice!” Greg scolded, but was interrupted by the microwave beeping at him before he could _really_ get into it. “You’re lucky I have to go get that,” he warned, pointing at Mycroft. “Curmudgeonly little snot.”

Mycroft made another, much softer ‘ _pbbbbt_ ’ noise at Greg’s back, fully knowing that for all his barking and threats, his bum was still very much in Greg’s ‘safe zone’, and still faaaaaar from getting a spanking. 

He was a teddy bear, and Mycroft liked to poke teddy bears. Especially the blustery ones. 

Greg turned back, newly-warmed baby bottle in hand. “You’re lucky that you’re cute,” he said, giving the bottle a good shake to make sure to disperse any hot spots. “You still want this, Mister Moo-croft?”

Mycroft perked up and nodded. “No’, he said brightly, and held out his hands for it. 

Greg grinned as he went and unbuckled his grumpy little man from his high chair and scooped him up onto one hip. Yeah, he was a sucker, and he knew it. 

He didn’t mind. “Fussy little moo-cow,” he said, kissing Mycroft on the cheek before letting him hold his bottle. “How much do you love me, huh? How much?…This much?” He reached up and squeezed one of the horns, making it go “MooOooOOoo!” in a warbly way. Greg gasped; “THAT much?!? You flatterer!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and would have blown another raspberry, if it weren’t for the warm bottle he was nursing. Oh, well. 

He’d get him next time.


	10. Day Ten: Getting his/her/their diaper changed (Thorin/Bilbo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear my wonderful amazing mama who I love so much: will you write Bagginshield for day 10? With Bilbo bein all embarrassed that he needs a change? 😊"

Thorin threw a glance back over his shoulder and, just as he’d suspected, found their little burglar trailing far behind the rest of the group, eyes downcast.

He knew what that meant.

He turned forward again, nudged Dwalin to get his attention, then grunted and ticked his head back in Bilbo’s direction.

Dwalin sneaked a quick look over his own shoulder and grunted as well, much in the same manner. “Again?”

“Aye, looks like.” Thorin swung his bag from his shoulder; “You got any extra?”

“One bundle left from the elves,” Dwalin replied. “Top of the pack. We’ll have to find some place for a wash when we stop for the night.”

“Agreed.” Thorin fell into step behind Dwalin to open his pack, and retrieved the small, twined bundle of clean cloths. He had another bundle in his own pack, as well as a small bottle of lightly fragrant oil that the elves had also given them.

Considerate, know-it-all bastards.

“Keep everyone moving forward,” he said as he retied Dwalin’s pack. “We’ll catch up.”

Dwalin nodded; “Aye. ALRIGHT, LET’S KEEP MOVING!!!” he barked to the rest of the dwarves; now, instead of being surrounded by silent, sullen men trodding along monotonously, the group snapped out of their own thoughts and were back in full alert. Each member picked up the pace and passed by Thorin, who purposely slowed and fell back behind them. No one gave their King a second glance, save for Balin and Bofur, who both traded him knowing looks between him and Bilbo, then marching on without a word.

Thorin slowed his steps until he could hear the distinct shuffling of distracted Hobbit feet coming up behind him, and then he placed his hand out to catch Bilbo and keep him from going forward. “Just wait with me a moment,” he said, feeling the Hobbits’ puzzled look upon him.

“Uh, okay…?” Instantly, a dozen thoughts raced through Bilbo’s mind–were they missing something? Was there danger ahead? Did Thorin need him for something? Did–

And then, he spied the bundle in Thorin’s hand.

“Ah, no. Nope. Mm-mm, no.” He shook his head quickly and stepped back; “Nope.”

Thorin kept his eyes on the company, until they were a suitable distance away. “Bilbo…” he sighed. By the Gods, did it have to be such a battle _every_ time?

“Don’t ‘ _Bilbo_ ’ me!” the halfling snapped. “You’re not going to…THORIN!” he squawked as he was suddenly grasped by the wrist and pulled off the trail.”NO!”

“We can not leave you in this…this state!” Thorin hissed as he led the struggling Hobbit behind a clump of bushes. “The quicker we get it done, then–!”

“Then let me do it myself!” Bilbo whinged. “I can handle it!”

Mahal, help him. While he had his back to Bilbo, Thorin rolled his eyes and began to untie the bundle of cloths. “Convincing, truly,” he grumbled. “Lie down.”

Bilbo’s cheeks bloomed red but, though he looked mad enough to spit, he flopped himself onto the ground and covered his face with his arm. “Fine, get it over with, he hissed through clenched teeth. However, a small part of him was…and he would never, _ever_ admit this out loud!…relieved that he would soon have the sagging mound of wet fabric ‘round his waist replaced with dry, fresher ones. Part of the reason he’d been lagging behind was that his thighs were starting to chafe terribly. 

Thorin knelt on one knee and worked Bilbo’s trousers down to his ankles, and grimaced. “Bilbo,” he said, his tone bordering on sympathetic as he took in the angry red patches on the Hobbit’s inner thighs. “You have to start letting someone know much earlier, tiny Burglar.”

“It’s fine,” Bilbo said stiffly. 

No, it was not fine, Thorin thought as he unwrapped the urine-soaked, makeshift nappy from around Bilbos’ waist. From his flask, he poured a small amount of cool water over the affected area and gently wiped it clean as best he could while the Hobbit squirmed and hid his face with his hands. 

Now, to let him air dry for a few moments. Thorin sat back on his heels and popped the cork on the tiny bottle of skin oil. “…Why do you fight it so?” he asked, since Bilbo seemed to be in a chatty mood and he could think of no better way to pass the time. 

“Because,” Bilbo scowled towards the sky. “Contrary to what you walnuts believe, I’m not actually a _baby_.”

Thorin laughed; “Trust me, burglar, you’ve made us all well aware,” he said, pouring a small amount into his hands and then rubbing the together to warm them. 

“Then why do you– _ah!_ ” Bilbo drew in a sharp breath as Thorin started to rub the oil into the sore places along the creases of his thighs, and the thighs themselves. 

“Because,” Thorin said. “It’s easier. And faster. And because it’s nice to have someone else change your soiled pants, isn’t it?” he said, and pinched a chubby thigh.

“F’ah!” Bilbo swatted at him. “Just finish it up already, dotard!”

Thorin laughed heartily as he took the new cloths and unfolded them. “Seems we’ve rubbed off on you already! Raise y’er little arse then!“

“Don’t ever talk about rubbing off and my arse in the same sentence, ever again.”


	11. Day Eleven: Bottle-fed by a friend/lover/caregiver (Bruce Wayne/Dick Grayson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I need Dick Grayson asking for Dada to feed him and being bottle fed by Bruce wayne to make my soul whole ❤️"

“Master Bruce.”

Bruce Wayne blinked…and instantly regretted it as he realized how dry his eyes were after an admittedly ridiculous amount of hours staring at his computer screen.

The intercom sounded off again;“…Master Bruce.”

Bruce rubbed his eyes gingerly, in an attempt to get rid of the gritty feeling. “Alfred,” he said, sounding tired even to his own ears.

“Your presence is currently being requested upstairs, Master Bruce.”

Bruce sat up, frowning. “This was ‘intercom’ worthy, and not ‘come downstairs’ worthy?”

“I–” There was only a moments pause, but that moment was enough for Bruce to finally to catch the frantic babblings of “D-da’, Da’da, Da’d-da, Da’da!” broken up with bouts of the most heartbreaking cries he’d ever heard.

Alfred continued; “…I can’t leave the room, sir.”

A quiet laugh escaped through Bruce’s nose as he smiled. God, his kids were making him soft. “Tell him to close his eyes and count to ten.”

“Indeed,” sighed Alfred, and the fact that Bruce could hear the relief in his voice was a testament to how rough of a time his big boy must be having tonight.

Nights were hard. Especially when they weren’t busy.

He knew what those quiet nights meant, when there was nothing to do and no one to talk to except your own thoughts. He’d had plenty of those himself.  
Alfred also knew. That’s why Bruce trusted him with Dick on those nights, but from the sound of it, tonight was one of those nights that needed Da-da.

And it’s not as if he couldn’t use a break, himself. “One,” Bruce counted out loud, and then booked it out of the room.

Dicks room was up the stairs and at the other end of the manor, but Bruce still came to a stop right outside the door just as he heard Alfred count to “…Seven…”, followed by a softer, tearful “…S-se'ben…”

Bruce stepped into the open doorway and signaled Alfred with a finger to his lips, and gestured that he should keep counting as he stood there and watched.

Alfred was perched at the head of Dick’s bed with the man cuddled up at his side, and even from across the room Bruce could see the half smile on his face when he entered the room. “Eight…” he said, petting Dick’s hair lovingly.

“Eigh’d,” Dick snuffled. He was partially draped over Alfred’s lap with his eyes squinched shut so tightly that it was even making Bruce see spots.

It was either that, or his own dry eyes giving him problems.

“Nine,” Alfred continued, and Bruce moved closer to the bed, the side opposite of Alfred. 

“N-nine.”

Bruce sat down, and finished for them. “Ten.”

Dick’s eyes shot open and the biggest, sweetest smile ever split his face. “DA’DA!” he cried as he sat up and half-crawled out of Alfred’s lap and flopped over onto Bruce, who he wrapped up in the bestest hug! “I MISS’D YOU!”

Bruce laughed as he pulled Dick int his lap and returned the favor. “You missed me?” he asked, and gave Dick a kiss on the forehead. “I’ve been home all day, big boy.”

Dick sighed and sagged against his Da’da’s chest, finally content. “Y’ah, bu’d I ha’bn’t see’d you.”

Bruce winced. Ouch. “I know,” he said, rubbing his hand up and down his little boy’s back. “Daddy got busy. That’s his fault…bad Daddy,” he sighed.

“Ba’h,” Dick mumbled, laying his head on Bruce’s shoulder. He didn’t care. Da’da was here now.

Alfred quietly stood and, without a word, handed Bruce the lukewarm bedtime bottle he’d been trying to get Dick to take before his meltdown.

Bruce took it with his free hand, and mouthed ‘thank you’ at him, to which Alfred nodded, gave a small bow, and left them to their own devices.

He sat and rocked his little guy in his lap for a short while, waiting for the hiccups and snuffles to subside. When they did, Bruce managed to turn both of them around and scoot backwards until his back met the wall. “Here we are, sweet boy,” he said as he got comfortable, and leaned Dick back until he was lying in the crook of his arm.

Dick, who’d been perfectly comfortable the way he was, whined and clutched at Bruce’s shirt…he couldn’t leave yet, he’d just gotten here!

“Settle.” Bruce worked Dick’s fingers loose, then brought them up and kissed the scarred, calloused knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.” Bruce switched the bottle from one hand to the other, and nudged his little boy’s lips. “There…there we are, good boy,” he praised when Dick finally latched on.

Dick snuggled down and wedged himself right up against Bruce’s chest before he finally relaxed.

It was quiet again. Mostly, at least, save for the soft thumping of Bruce’s hand against Dick’s diaper and the quiet ‘nuk-nuk-nuk’ of his suckling.

This kind of quiet, though…this was the type of quiet that Bruce didn’t mind. It was the good kind of quiet, and the only concern he had now was how in the hell he was going to get out from under his baby boy without waking him up.

Eh, he thought as he brushed Dick’s hair back from his forehead. That was a problem for future Bruce.


	12. Day Twelve: Fussing for milk/a change (Loki/Natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “number 12 with loki and natasha with breastfeeding please.”

You must understand one thing, and one thing only; Loki _loved_ being a Mama. He loved having so many dumplings flocking under his wing now, especially his lovely little fiery-haired (with a temper to match) malyshka, who was his, and only his.

And although Natasha was his, and only his, Loki loved the rest of her tiny Midgardian friends as if they were his own, and loved nothing more than caring for them the same way…which would sometimes include letting them on the breast. 

When he chose to have them, anyway. 

It was always a lovely bonding experience, to have a babe in arms snuggled to you, close and warm, while gazing up at you as if you were their entire world…because, if only for those few precious moments, you were. And it made Mama happy to provide that for them. 

But. 

When his little Natasha, who would always insist that she was _such_ a big girl! decided that she wanted the breast…she really _wanted_ the breast. Any place. Any time. And she had no qualms about letting Mama know. 

“Natasha,” Loki warned as he swatted an eager hand away from his chest. “I’ve already told you, patience.” 

“Bu’d, Mama…!” 

“‘But’ nothing. You can wait until we’re home.” 

“Maaaaamaaaaa!” Tasha wailed as she sank to the floor at Loki’s feet right in the middle of the very crowded cafe they were supposed to be having lunch in. 

Loki pinched the bridge of his nose. “…You have a nice cup of milk–that you asked for, remember–sitting right here,” he said, picking up the small sippy-cup the waitress had brought, along with the rest of their drinks. 

Natasha only wrinkled her nose at it. “I DON’ WAN’ THA’D!” she whinged, almost as screaming level. “YOUR’S I’SH BE’DDER!”

Across the table, Thor simply sat back and watched the scene before him unfold with a highly amused grin on his face. “Can’t argue with that,” he chuckled. 

Loki continued to glare at the table beside them, daring the mysteriously (maybe wisely) silent occupants to say something. ”Don’t. Encourage. Her,” he said, slowly. 

Thor held up his hands to proclaim his innocence, but his eyes still held a spark of mischief in them. “No trouble meant, brother. But I also remember a certain tiny, raven-haired infant who also worried our Mother about the breast day and night until she was frazzled and worn.”

Now Loki looked up at him while Natasha continued to headbutt Loki’s thigh while babbling _furiously._ “I did no such thing.”

Thor barked out a single laugh. “Ah, you were too young to remember the Feast of the Einherjar! Barely walking you were, but that didn’t stop you from toddling right through the middle of the hall and straight for Mother’s lap-!”

“Your memory betrays you,” Loki muttered, and closed his eyes as Natasha started to have a proper cry.

“…Never once saw her deny you, though. No matter who was there, what was being said, she’d pick you up and free herself and _pop_ , there you were!” Thor pantomimed the act of holding an infants head in his hands and sticking it to his chest, making a loud **POP** with his lips. “Like a little leech!”

“Alright, ALRIGHT, you’ve made your point, brother,” Loki sighed, and leaneed over to gather Natasha from the floor. “Here…no, come here, dumpling, come to Mama.”

“M-Ma-ma,” stammered as Loki lifted her into his lap, her face a mess of tears and snot. He brushed back the hair that was plastered to her cheek, and reached for the top buttons of his shirt; “Shhhh, calm down…yes, you’re getting what you were after, you little lamprey.”

“Hm, it sounded better when I said ‘leech’.”

“Shut up,” Loki cooed, still smiling at Nat as he tipped her in his lap, the way she preferred to lay when she was nursing, and then freed his breast. 

Natasha nuzzled around for his nipple for a moment before finally latching on, eliciting a sigh from both of them. Loki gently swayed from side to side, rocking her. “There, is that better? Yes, know…” he talked to her as she mewled in reply. 

Thor smiled fondly as he watched his little brother fuss over his little ‘dumpling’, petting and cooing over her now that she was settled. He propped his elbow on the table and rested his cheek against his fist, and thought about how much the look on Loki’s face as he gazed down at Natasha reminded him of the way their Mother would look at them.


	13. Day Thirteen: Snuggling with a friend/lover/caregiver (Thorin/Bilbo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can I ask for more Bagginshield for day 13? 🥺 Snuggling after a spanking, or after Bilbo has a nightmare? Your choice ❤️ "

The rest of the dwarves had already made camp for the night by the time Thorin and Bilbo caught up, even though they still had good few hours of traveling time before the sun set. But when he was questioned about it, Dwalin had merely shrugged and gestured to the nearby stream.

Thorin blinked at the ‘stream’, which was little more than a half-foot wide trickle of mountain run-off at best, but still…it was clear, it was fresh, and it was running, and they needed it.

“…Fair ‘nough,” he grunted, and let his pack fall to the ground.

And since they did have a fair bit of sunshine left, they made the most of it; each of the men took a place along the bank and set about washing their things: shirts, socks (Mahal, there were _so many_ grungy socks!), trousers, cups, bowls…anything that could be washed, was washed.

Especially, Bilbo’s cloth nappies.

Each dwarf had their own bundle of them–they each took turns changing the Hobbit in spite of his numerous, very vocal protests–and by the time everyone was done, every rock, branch, fallen log, and any other flat surface was completely covered with wet laundry left to dry in the sun.

All that was left now was to drink and eat, and wait for nightfall.

The mood around the small fire was light and easy, the drink was strong, and the food, sparse as it was, was filling. Calling for an early camp and giving everyone a much-needed break seemed to be what everyone needed.

Even Thorin was enjoying himself as he sat by the fire and listened with earnest to everyone’s stories and throwing in some of his own that he knew he’d told at least a dozen times, but everyone still listened and reacted as if it were the first time hearing them, and Thorin appreciated it.

Then, just as the sun decided to start packing it in for the day and began to dip towards the treeline, Thorin caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned just in time to see Dwalin gathering a handful of Bilbo’s cloths from the rocks beside the stream and then head off towards a thicket of trees further downstream, on the other side of the bank.

And trailing behind him, looking as cross as ever, was Bilbo.

Thorin chuckled to himself; stuffy little shit, always insisting that they had to be somewhere far away and private, even though everyone here’s seen everyone else’s bits from every which way imaginable…and some that you didn’t _want_ to imagine. He took another drink and went back to listening to Gloin boasting about his little pebble back home.

It was later…much later, and after he’d had plenty of time to get good and decently pissed…when he noticed Dwalin had reappeared and taken a place at the fire.

Bilbo, had not.

Thorin sat up and looked around to see if Bilbo had stopped the stream for a moment’s reflection, or was getting something to eat out of his pack, or if he was just begin his usual grumpy little self and legging behind.

But, no. None of those things. He was no where in sight.

Thorin leaned towards his friend; “Where’s the halfling?” he asked.

Dwalin tore into a loaf of bread; “Still there,” he mumbled through a mouthful, and nodded towards the thicket. “Nursin’ his wounds.”

Thorin sat up; “His wounds??”

“Aye.” Dwalin took another mouthful and went to wash it down. “Started arguin’ with me again, so I smacked his uppity little arse.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Settled him right down.”

Ah. “You din’ do it too hard, did y’ah?”

“Hard enough to get his attention. Put an end to that foolishness.”

The corner of Thorin’s mouth twitched as he imagined how well that had gone down. He could also sympathise, knowing the kind of damage Dwalin could dole out with those big, coarse paws of his. Thorin heaved himself up, and was proud that he only came close to losing his balance once. “Mean ole’ bastard,” he said, thumping Dwalin’s shoulder.

Dwalin grunted in reply.

Thorin took his time making his way over the stream in the quickly fading evening light, cursing as he missed his footing and soaked his boots and pants all the way to the knees.

He stumbled over tree roots and sticks, making quite the ruckus as he approached the thicket. “…Bilbo?”

There was the sound of snuffling behind a conveniently-sized Hobbit-shaped stump and, as Thorin rounded it, he found the source of the snuffling; “Bilbo.”

Bilbo looked up at Thorin from where he was crouched on the ground, rubbing his nappied backside with both hands…even through the encroaching darkness, Thorin could see his ruddy, tear-stained cheeks. “Go’way!” he snapped, reaching down to gather his pants from around his ankles.

Thorin sighed. As much as Bilbo had likely earned exactly what he’d gotten, it was hard not to feel for the little one. He sat down next to the halfling, and patted his lap. “C’mere, tiny burglar.”

“Don’ want to–” Bilbo started to complain, and then squawked when he felt himself being lifted and dragged over. “Thorin, no!” he fussed. “It hurts too much…!”

“I know.” Thorin settled Bilbo on his lap, facing him, and made him lay against his chest as he held him and took over rubbing his bum.

Bilbo went still, as this was something that he never, ever, in his entire life, imagined would be happening.

The Dwarven King…was cuddling him. After a _spanking_ , of all things.

He felt Thorin hook his thumb in the waistband of his nappy and hold it out, then give a low whistle.

“Stooooop,” Bilbo groaned, and hid his face in Thorin’s coat.

“Dwalin’s not one to mess with, burglar. You were bound to find out one way or another.”

“He hates me,” Bilbo sniffed.

“Nah,” Thorin said as he let go of the nappy and pressed it back into place, snug against Bilbo’s skin. “He likes you just fine; he just doesn’t take any guff from the pebbles.” He stopped and chuckled; “Just ask Kili and Fili.”

Bilbo ‘hmphed’ into his shoulder, blushing furiously…Thorin couldn’t necessarily see it, but he could feel the little Hobbit’s body heating up. “It’s less likely to happen again if you’d stop your fussing and let us take care of you.”

Bilbo finally turned to peer up at Thorin; “Don’t need to be taken care of,” he grumbled, still resting his cheek on his shoulder.

“Perhaps if you keep saying it, you’ll one day convince me.”


	14. Day Fourteen: Going in his/her diaper on the potty (Steve/Bucky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Steve/Bucky again for day 14? 🥺🥺🥺"

“Hey, punkface! C'mere for a second!" 

Bucky got up from the kitchen table, the only place he was allowed to play with his playdough since ‘The Bed Incident’, and eventually found Steve in their bedroom, beaming like an idiot and watching Buck expectantly. On the bed, there sat a big-ish cardboard box. 

Buck tilted his head as he regarded it…between Steve calling him in here and the look on his face, it was pretty obvious that whatever was in the box, was meant for him. And Steve was excited about it. 

Bucky gave the lump of playdough he’d been carrying a squeeze; "Wha’d is i’d?” 

“Okay, so…okay.” Steve grabbed the box and pulled it towards him. There was no tape holding it closed. “So, you know how…so, sometimes you have trouble making it to the potty? When you’re in big boy pants?" 

Bucky frowned; ”…I don’ mean'oo,“ he mumbled as he rolled his playdough in his hands, forming a ball. 

"No! No, baby, I know you don’t mean too…those are accidents, but this is going to help with those accidents, see?” 

Bucky heard Steve opening the flaps of the box, and then pull something out of it. 

“Look, big boy!”

Bucky looked up, and gave a soft, awed gasp.

Okay, Steve would _have_ to remember to tell Stephen about that. That was too damn cute. “Look, Tony’s daddy sent it for you!” Steve gushed as he set the brand-spanking-new Blue’s Clues training potty on the floor. “Come look at it!” he said, and pulled out his phone.

Bucky slowly crept up to the potty and circled it, giving it the once over…it was shaped like a normal training potty, except for a big plastic Blue leaning over the back with the little bar of soap character standing next to her, both of them smiling. It even had a fake handle that could be pushed down to flush. 

Bucky stuck his thumb in his mouth, and looked up at Steve. 

“Go on,” Steve encouraged as he kept recording, not wanting to miss a moment. 

Bucky blinked, and then tentatively reached out to push the handle down. There was a loud, exaggerated flushing sound that startled him and he jerked his hand back, dropping his playdough in the process, and reached for Steve–

–but the flushing sound ended, and there was Blue’s voice, cheering you on. “Good job!” she said, while the little soap bar went “Yay!” 

Bucky’s eyes lit up at the sound of her voice, and he clapped excitedly; “B’yue!” he giggled, and then patted the plastic puppy on the head. “I’ds B’yue! Hi!!!”

“Oh my God,” Steve whispered, knowing that the phone would pick it up, and then spoke up for Bucky; “Yea, Blue told you ‘good job’! That’s what she says when you use the potty like a big boy!”

“Po’ddy?” Bucky crouched down at floor level to look her in the eye. “B’yue po’ddy?”

“Yep, when Bucky sits and goes potty like a big boy,” Steve said again, completely tickled…God, this was cute. “What do you say to Stephen for giving you such a nice present?”

“F’ank yoouuuuu for B’yuuuue!” Bucky said as he plopped himself down on the potty seat. 

Steve laughed…God, that was perfect. He hadn’t known exactly how Bucky was gonna react to a training potty, but it literally couldn’t have gone better. “Alright, we’re gonna say bye-bye for now,” he said, turning the camera to face him. “Thanks again, man, he loves it…you and Tony will have to come over soon!” he added before stopping the recording. God, he felt so awkward talking to a picture of himself. Nat had tried to show him how to Facetime, and somehow it felt even worse when there was a live audience. 

“Alright, baby, you wanna try out your new potty–?” he asked as he pocketed his phone and turned back to the room…just in time to see Bucky stand up and ‘flush’. 

“Good job!”  
“Yay!”

Bucky giggled and clapped again, “Goo’job, goo’job!” he cheered.

“Yeah, good job! That’s what Blue says!” Steve went to lower Bucky’s pull-up; “You wanna try and use it for real this time?”

“I did!” Bucky replied, ever so proud of himself! 

“You did–?” Steve started to ask, and then stopped when he noticed that, uh, Bucky’s pull-up was more than a little saggy. And yellow, where it used to be white. 

“Uh, looks like you did, bubba.” Steve looked up into Bucky’s grinning little face, and…

You know what, no. He loved the potty, and he’d been comfortable enough to not only sit on it (which Steve had been fully expecting a fight for), but _used_ it. 

They could work on the logistics later. 

Steve stood up, and squished Bucky’s cheeks in his hands. “Good job, baby!” he said, and landed a big, congratulatory kiss on the forehead.


	15. Day Fifteen: Throwing a tantrum (Mycroft/Greg)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It'd be a shame is Gregs shiny new paddle in Not so silent night only got used once ;) ;) can we see it be put to good use again for day 15?"

“You go'dda be s'dill, G'eg!” Sherlock scolded. “You ma'ge me me'sh u'b!”  
  
“Forgive me if the idea of a baby with a pencil right next to my very vulnerable eyeball makes me twitchy.”  
  
Sherlock sighed and fell back…or almost fell back, as Greg had him firmly held in place, straddling his lap. “I'sh nah g'unna hur’d if you be sh'till aw'ready!”  
  
“Sherlock. Sweetheart. Muffin. You have to understand how upsetting it is to have a pencil point slowly approaching your eyeball.” 

“I’m no’d g'unna po'ge yoouuuuu!” Sherlock wiggled unhappily.  
  
“It would make Sherlock…and me, frankly…very happy if you would suck it up and quit dodging, Gregory.”  
  
“Speak for yourself,” Greg muttered, and the snapped his head back as Sherlock, for the umpteenth time, went to apply the eyeliner.  
  
“G'EG!!! ST'AHP!!!” Sherlock squealed.  
  
“Gregory…”  
  
“I can’t help it!” Greg insisted. “It’s a reflex!”  
  
“You say'ed I c'n do a ma'ge u'bs!” Sherlock said, sounding close to tears as he was clearly upset by the lack of Greg’s confidence in his make-up skills.  
  
“He’s right, darling.” Mycroft was sat at the end of their bed, enjoying a nice glass of wine as he watched his boyfriend playing a game of dress-up with his baby brother.  
  
Well, it had _started_ as a nice game of dress-up, until Sherlock had decide that Mycrofts’ make-up stash should also be part of the game, and had begged and pleaded, and then begged, and then pleaded some more until he’d worn Greg down and gotten a ‘yes’…albeit a reluctant one.  
  
“You did agree.”  
  
“I was strong-armed,” Greg replied…and dodged another swipe of the pencil. “Okay, no. Nope, uh-uh, I can’t do this,” he said, and scooted Sherlock off from his lap with a speed that left the little tyke speechless, and got up from the chair. “Nope. Can’t.”

Mycroft sighed and set his wine aside. “Gregory…” he implored. 

“I said NO,” Greg snapped…it was harsher than he meant it to be, but he was ready to move on to something else. “Pick another game, muffin, or Greg’s not playing anymore.”

Sherlock had been taken completely by surprise at the abrupt change in the room, and worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he blinked up at Greg. He knew that G’eg only got snappy when he was mad, but he’d only been playing, and G’eg had said it was okay, and…

Greg watched as Sherlock’s face crumbled, and felt every ounce of irritation melt away as the little detective started to cry.

…Damn. 

He went to go hug him, to tell him he was sorry and that he didn’t mean it, but Mycroft was up in a flash and had his little brother in his arms before Greg could move. “Shhh, sh-sh-sh, it’s alright, sweetheart,” he cooed as Sherlock wept on his shoulder. “It’s alright…Gregory’s only grumpy because he missed his nap,” he added, making it a point to look Greg right in the eye. 

Greg’s shoulders slumped. “I’m s–”

“Let’s go find Daddy, hm?” Mycroft kissed the side of Sherlock’s head as he carried him out of the room. “You and Daddy can play while I make sure our Gregory gets all the rest he needs, yes…!”

Greg swallowed thickly. 

He waited until he could no longer hear Mycroft’s voice travel down the hall before slumping down to sit on the end of the bed, his chin in his hands. Dammit. Why did he have to go and get pissy…pissier than he had to be, anyway. He could’ve accomplished the same thing without hurting the baby’s feelings. 

He was still sitting there on the bed, staring glumly at his hands and feeling sorry for himself, when he heard Mycroft come back in the room, and quietly shut the door behind him. 

“–Before you start, I’m sorry,” Greg blurted. “I know I snapped, and I shouldn’t have, not when he’s Little like that, but I lost my head and I did, and I’m sorry, so can we just get this over with so I can go tell him I’m sorry?”

There was a beat’s pause. “…Get what over with, Gregory.”

Greg looked up, then; Mycroft was leaning against the door, arms crossed, and regarding Greg coolly. 

“You…aren’t gonna smack me?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him; “Well, actually I was just going to tell you off and put you down for a nap, considering the amount of ‘peer pressure’ you’ve endured. From an infant,” he added, with a sly smile. 

“…Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’.”

Greg looked back down at his hands while he took a moment to think to himself; it felt…easy? Too easy? Don’t get him wrong, a telling off from Mycroft could be blistering and leave one in tears all on it’s own because the man knew exactly what buttons to push, but a nap sounded downright pleasant, and that didn’t feel…enough?

“Gregory…?”

Greg rubbed his hands over his face, and finally peeked out at Mycroft from between them. “What, uh. what about…”

Mycroft tilted his head, listening expectantly, but remained quiet while he let Greg work it out for himself. 

“Um…what if we did, y’know, a couple smacks? And call it even?”

Mycroft put his finger to his lips as he considered this; “Five with the paddle.”

Greg balked; okay, he did deserve _something_ , but that bloody thing HURT. “…Three?” he tried, weakly. 

“Hm. Three, but you’ll still have to nap and then apologize to the baby proper afterwards.”

“Deal.”

“Alright.” Mycroft stood and rolled up his right sleeve, which set Greg’s tummy to doing all sorts of nervous flips and tricks at just the sight. “Stand up, trousers down.”

Greg swallowed thickly from a mouth that was suddenly much too dry for such things. He went to stand, sat back down instead and briskly rubbed his sweaty palms along his jeans, and stood up again. 

Meanwhile, Mycroft had moved to the large dresser on the far side of their room and opened the very top drawer, and from there he withdrew the very large, very *heavy* paddle. 

Greg could see his initials gleaming from it where they were engraved, taunting him. He exhaled loudly and, quickly as he could, fumbled with the fly of his jeans and shucked them down to mid-thigh. 

…He might as well have been naked. 

Mycroft used the paddle to point to a spot on the floor in front of him, and Greg timidly shuffled over, his face already burning hot with shame and anticipation. 

Why had he asked for this, again?!?

“I’m sure you know good and well what this is for?” Mycroft asked. Any hint of amusement he’d shown earlier was nowhere to be found now, in either his tone or expression. 

“Yes,” Greg replied, keeping his eyes downcast. 

“Good; then I won’t waste anymore time. Bend over, hands on your knees.“ 

Greg took a deep, *deep* breath that made his lungs ache, and did as he was told. When he felt Mycroft’s arm wrap around his waist to hold him flush at his side, he squeezed his eyes shut. 

The first crack of the paddle against his backside had him jutting forward as all the breath left his lungs. 

The second had him gasping, and he tried to stand up from the sheer, agonizing burn that it left, but Mycroft had him firmly held in place against his his hip. 

The third (and he *knew* this one would be bad, Mycroft always made the last swat the worst!) and final swat had him crying out and jumping up again, and this time Mycroft allowed it. Greg immediately reached back and rubbed his arse furiously, trying in vain to ease the terrible burn. 

Mycroft let him have his moment to lick his wounds while he put the paddle away and straightened out his sleeve. When that was done, he turned to Greg and held his arms out.

Greg fell right into them without a moment’s hesitation…God, he was just grateful that it was over!…and that it hadn’t been *five*. He shuddered at the thought. 

Mycroft rubbed a soothing hand up and down Greg’s back. "You took that very well, darling,” he said. “I’m proud of you." 

Greg gave a shaky laugh into his boyfriend’s shoulder. "Yeah?”

“Of course.” Mycroft reached down and gave Greg’s bottom a playful squeeze, then chuckled when he squirmed. “Right, in the bed you get. And o want you thinking about how you’re going to apologise to the baby." 

Greg loosed himself from Mycroft’s hug with a sigh and went to pull up his jeans, but…and by God, he doesn’t know what got into him!… he stopped short and wiggled his pants-covered arse at him. "Yes, sir!" 

”…You know I can get the paddle right back out, Gregory.“

"No! I mean, no sir, not necessary!" Greg chuckled to himself as he dove straight into bed.. He flopped over onto his back and was just about to pull up the covers, when he stopped. "Hey, um, can you…tuck me in? Please?” he implored, fluttering his eyelashes. 

“Oh, good Lord,” Mycroft sighed. “You’re lucky that you’re cute.” 

“And smart. Brilliant, even. And witty, street smart. Fitter’n anyone, with an arse you could bounce a coin off of…!” Greg giggled as Mycroft tucked in the sheets around him. “This is supposed to be a punishment,” the elder Holmes muttered, and kisses Greg on the forehead. 

“It iiiiiisssss.” Greg wriggled down under the covers, getting comfy. “Love you, Myc.”

“Love you too, you fit, coin-bouncingest man alive.”


	16. Day Sixteen: Lolita Baby (nsfw) (Clint/Natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Putting in advanced requests probably is against the rules, but I think for day 16 a grumpy little Natasha and a big Clint could be fun."

“Oh, so this was Mama’s idea, huh?”  
  
“Y'ah. Now lay down." 

So why–” Clint grunted as Natasha pushed him over and climbed on top of him, straddling his lap; “–why did Mama decide to lend me her little girl for the night, huh?” he asked, spanning her waist with his hands. “Not that I’m complaining." 

"She said you nee'ah relax.” Nat started grinding her hips as she ran her hands up Clint’s shirt, and he became very aware that yes, she was diapered, yes, she was wet, and yes, she was likely going to make him cum with that alone.

Clint brushed his fingertips down her thigh, then let them drift back up her skirt and along the leg of her diaper before slipping one in the leghole, making her gasp.

“You’re soaked, baby girl,” he groaned, sliding his finger along her cleft until he reached her clit. “Tiny little baby, can’t keep her panties dry so Mama put her in diapers,” he said, flicking it and dragging the pad of his finger over it in an alternating pattern. “But you can’t keep those dry either, can you?”

“S-sorry,” she gasped, snapping her hips in time with his flicking.

Clint forced her diaper aside and inserted more fingers.

“That’s alright, baby girl,” he said as he pulled his hand back out and rubbed his fingers together, testing their slickness before putting them to Nat’s lips and letting her suck them clean…and then going back for more.

“Daddy’s gonna take care of you.” 


	17. Day Seventeen: Wearing diapers on long road trips (Steve/Bucky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can't add the meme anonymously but I figured why have I been asking anonymously anyway when this isn't even my main account and nobody has to know who I am?"

“…I'ds g'woss in here.”

“It’s…not that bad?”

Bucky peeked around Steve and wrinkled his nose at the interior of the men’s restroom. The whole place smelled like stale pee, mildew, vomit, and alarmingly, the coppery smell of old blood. And a lot of the questionable puddles and streaks and smears on the wall likely took part in that.

“I’m no’d go'een in there.”

“We’ve gotta change your diaper, baby. C'mon, in and out real fast; Daddy won’t let you touch anything gross.”

“E'bryf'ings g'woss.”

“Bucky–”

“No.”

Steve let the door of the bathroom swing shut, much to Bucky’s relief. He wasn’t really all that eager to go in there either, much less try to wrestle a baby who was already grumpy from the car ride.

The rest of the place was no better…the pamphlets, what few were left, were yellowed and curled from age, the gigantic map that boasted their location faded from years in the sun, vending machines empty (except for the small family of mice that had taken up residency in one of them, even though any food that had been left behind was long gone), and the drinking fountains crusted over with dried mold.

Bucky was right. Everything was g'woss. Leave it to Steve to pick the one rest stop that , from the looks of it, hadn’t been maintained since the early 90′s.

Guess he was going to have to change the kid in the grass, because the car wasn’t an option…Bucky was too big to lay on the backseat and Steve’s shoulders were too wide to lean in comfortably to change him. And Bucky would end up leaking and needing a change of clothes if they got back in and tried to find another place to stop along the highway.

Grass it was, then. Steve scanned the scant few yards of grass before the parking lot began, his gaze skimming over the brown patches and the picnic tables drowning in knee-high weeds, and–

Oh, wait. Picnic tables. That was actually kinda perfect?

Steve hitched the strap of the diaper bag high on his shoulder and took Bucky’s hand. “Let’s try over there, big boy,” he said, and led him over to the nearest table.

They were old and grafitti-covered, yes, but despite the crudely drawn dicks and slurs that made him roll his eyes and wish it was still socially-acceptable to take his belt to deserving little shits, the table was sturdy and free of both bird shit and splinters (which he discovered after brushing his hand over it). He took the changing pad out of the diaper bag and laid it out over the table; “Hop up, baby,” he said, patting it.

Bucky sucked on his thumb as he considered the set up. “…I don’ w’ike i’d,” he said finally.

“I know it’s not the best, buddy, but it’s either this, or I’ve gotta change you standing up.”

Bucky frowned at the very thought. “…O’gay,” he sighed, and held his arms up for Steve to lift him onto the table.

Steve grunted as he lifted him and plopped him down on the mat, then reached reached into the bag for a diaper and the green tea wipes that Bucky loved. “Good boy! Lay back for me.”

Bucky did as he was told, still frowning, and folded his arms over his chest.

While he worked Bucky’s pants down his thighs, Steve considered himself lucky that he was _only_ pouting. “I know, I don’t like it either, baby,” he said, stripping him of his heavily-soaked diaper and wiping him clean. “But hey, you know what we could do later?”

Bucky blinked at him, waiting for an answer.

“We cooould–” Steve took his time dowsing Bucky’s bits in a cloud of powder; “–stop by the very next McDonalds we see.”

Well, that wiped the frown off Bucky’s face in a heartbeat. “We can?” he asked, his eyes wide and hopeful.

“Yup. And you can get aaaaaall the nuggies you want!”

“Tha’s _sh’o_ many!!” Bucky clapped.

Steve grinned as he taped a clean diaper nice and smug around the little guy’s hips. “I bet I can eat more than you!”

“Nuh-uh! No’d my nuggies!”

“Nooooo, not yours! I’ll get my own and we can have a nuggie-eating contest.” Steve took Bucky’s hands and sat him up. “All done! We just gotta get your pants up, big boy!”

Bucky wiggled and hopped off the table. “Thi’sh c’n hol’ sh’o many!” he said, holding his shirt up out of the way and patting his belly as Steve put his pants back to rights.

“I bet it can; it’s a good place to keep them safe.” Steve bent down and kissed his belly, making Bucky scrunch and yank his shirt back down. “St’aaaaahb,” he giggled.

Steve folded the changing mat and packed it back in the diaper bag, along with the wipes and powder, and handed Bucky the plastic bag with his wet diaper. “Can you be a big helper and throw this away in that trash can right over there, see?” he asked, pointing to the one nearest to the car.

“O’gay!” Bucky said happily…he was always happy to be a big helper, and not only that, he was gonna get _nuggies!_ He couldn’t get any happier!

Steve gathered up the diaper bag, grinning to himself. He loved being able to put a smile that big on Bucky’s face…especially when all it took was the promise of chicken nuggets.

“Good job, baby! C’mon, let’s get back in your booster seat and get this show on the road…next stop, Nuggies!”


	18. Day Eighteen: Getting a shot (Stephen Strange/Tony Stark)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Pairing for day 18 please: lil Tony Stark and Daddy Doctor Strange!"

Stephen Strange hated this time of year. No, it wasn’t because of the holidays; he wasn’t a Scrooge, for Christ'sakes. But that didn’t stop all the little ones at the compound from looking at him like a monster. 

…It was flu shot season. 

He’d been prepared for weeks, gathering up all sorts of tiny toys, candy, stickers (tons and TONS of stickers, stickers by the hundreds!), and at least one box of bandaids per any of the babies favorite cartoons characters, all for distracting each of them (and some of the Bigs, too) for before, during, and after their shots. 

And it worked, for the most part–Nat only kicked him the one time (in the meaty part of his thigh, thankfully), Clint only cried for ten minutes (with a lot of petting and hugs), Scott had only gotten misty-eyed, Bruce had slept in Thor’s lap, and both Steve and Bucky had been too busy with covering every inch of Bucky’s arm in stickers to care much. 

That meant there was only one little one left. 

…Tony. 

Stephen smiled at his baby boy as he stripped off a pair of disposable gloves. “Hey, baby boy,” he said, and reached out to tickle the bottom of a bare foot while the Cloak had Tony wrapped up nice and snug as they were serving as a baby swing. 

Tony only sniffled as he looked at Stephen woefully, with those big, brown doe-eyes of his, and kicked his foot feebly. 

God, it made Stephen hate himself. “I know, I know…Daddy’s being a big old meanie,” he cooed. “I’m so-so-so sorry, Bambi, but this is going to keep you safe and healthy, and you are going to get so-so-so many kisses after! And stickers! And as much candy as your little belly can hold!” 

Unfortunately, not even the promise of a treat was able to make the whole miserable situation better. Tony’s little lip wobbled, and he reached for Stephen. “Da'da,” he whimpered as his eyes welled up with tears. 

Stephen felt his heart break. Even the Cloak seemed to feel badly, as they gently swung Tony back and forth and brushed his cheeks with their soft fabric ‘hands’. 

“Aw, baby…” Stephen took Tony’s grasping hands, and placed soft kisses along the knuckles. “It’ll be over in a second, sweetheart, I promise!” 

Big, fat, (mostly) crocodile tears rolled down Tony’s cheeks when he realized that no, he was not getting picked up and cuddled. He sank back against the Cloak’s soft folds, and began to cry. 

Christ, Stephen thought as he quickly snapped on a clean pair of gloves, and prepped a new syringe. He wanted to get this over with and snuggle up his baby boy just as much as Tony did. 

He twisted his upper body to keep Tony from seeing him prep the shot. Even though he knew it was coming, Stephen still wanted to make this as least traumatic as possible. “Oh, oh no! What’s wrong with the baby??? Who’s mistreated this poor, pitiful child??” he teased, keeping the tone of his voice light as he drew back the plunger on the syringe. 

“Da’ da’ da’ da’,” Tony jabbered tearfully, no matter how the Cloak tried to soothe him. 

“Oh no, that’s sooo sad! Whoever did that that to this poor, innocent child should be in _jail_!” Stephen tucked the syringe close to his wrist, out of sight, and turned back to Tony with his biggest, brightest smile. “My sweet, precious, oh-so-big brave boy! Can you sit very, very still for Daddy?!”

“Daaaaaaa’!” Tony screeched as he reached for him, nearly spilling out of his seat if both Stephen and Cloak hadn’t caught him. 

’ _So that’s a no_ ,’ Stephen thought. Okay. New tactic. 

Tony’s chunky little baby thighs were right there, uncovered, and more firmly held in place than his biceps were. 

It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing. Better than trying to inoculate a squirrelly infant, at least. Just gotta distract him for about three seconds.

Stephen gasped exaggeratedly, his mouth dropping open and his eyes going comically wide. “Wait…what, what’s this?!” he asked voice full of awe, and reached out to poke one of Tony’s bare legs. 

Tony stared out at him woefully as he sucked one corner of the Cloak, who seemed to begrudgingly allow it…this time. The baby was upset, and they didn’t like Tony being upset if they could help it. 

Stephen took one of the packets on the table and tore it open, then wrapped the tiny alcohol wipe and wrapped it around the tip of his gloved finger. “And this?!” He poked the other thigh, and rubbed a sterile patch on Tony’s skin. “Is that…no, is that a _drumstick_??” he asked, playfully pinching the fleshiest part. “Look, look at these big, juicy turkey legs!” 

A faint smile peeked out from the corner of the Cloak that Tony was chewing on, making his teary little eyes crinkle at the corners. 

Stephen held the syringe low, thumb on the plunger. “Mmm- _mm_! You know that the legs are the best part…can Daddy have a bite, huh?” Stephen teased with little pinches along Tony’s thigh…not enough to hurt, but to serve as a distraction. “Can I have this piece? Or this piece?? Can I have a nibble here?!”

Tony giggled. “N’ah my y’eg!” he said, slurring around the drooly fabric in his mouth. 

“Aw, I can’t? Wait, what about this super tasty little bite right here?” Stephen pinched up a little piece of flesh and lowered his face to take a ‘bite’…and in one fluid motion, (and blocked from Tony’s view by the top of his head), he poked the needle in and depressed the plunger.

Tony squealed and grabbed a handful of Stephen’s hair. “N’ah ea’d me!” he giggled. 

Ha-ha, success! Stephen sat up, pretending to pout; “Aw, but they look so good!” he said, gently rubbing his (sterile) thumb over the inoculation sight…not even a mark left behind.

 _Damn_ , he was good at this. “…Not even one itsy-bitsy, teensie weensie bite?” 

“N’ah!” Tony kicked his leg, completely unaware of what had just happened. 

“Ah, well, maybe next time,” Stephen said as he set the empty syringe aside, making sure that Tony saw it, and stripped off his gloves. “All done, big boy. Now you get to choose a bandaid and a sucker.”

Tony went still; “A’w d’un…?”

“Yup, all done. You want Big Bird or Elmo?” Stephen asked, already opening the box of Sesame Street bandages that he knew Tony would pick. 

“…El’bow,” Tony grinned.


	19. Day Nineteen: Caregiver giving his/her little a bath (Harry/Ron/Hermione)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "✨Day 19 Baby Harry with CG Ron/Hermione ✨"

“Let’s see…do you want bubbles?”

“Y'us.”

“You want…your floaty Opaleye?!” Ron held up a toy version of the dragon, it’s pearlescent scales glimmering in the light.

“Y'us!”

Ron flipped it into the filling bathtub with a plunk, and it immediately began to swim among the growing piles of suds, letting out tiny roars. “How about your–”

Hermione sighed; “He’s going to say ‘yes’ to everything you say, Ron…just pick one more.” 

“Spoilsport,” Ron snorted. He then picked up the modestly-sized basket of bath toys, both magical and non, and held it up for Harry to see. “One more, little man…player’s choice!”

Harry pulled his arm free from the plush, hooded dragon towel he was wrapped in, and tapped his lips. “Hmmm…only one?” he asked in a tiny voice, peeking at Hermione over his shoulder. 

Hermione had him bundled in her lap while they waited for the tub to fill. “You say it like you don’t have two other toys waiting for you, you silly little bean!”

“Bubbles don’t count–!” Ron tried to ague, but Hermione interrupted him; “They do when they’re Drungus Umongus’s Unpoppable Bubbables!” 

Ron huffed, but as Hermione was indeed correct (and had overseen his attempts to hide just what kind of bubbles he was adding to Harry’s bath), he turned to the bath and reached in to search out the small dragon instead of arguing further. 

Harry giggled to himself…it was always a little funny when on got in trouble, as long as it wasn’t too serious. 

…And Drungus Umongus was such a silly name! That always made him laugh, too!

Satisifed, Hermione peeked over Harry to see what toys were left. “Pick one, dear-heart,” she said, and propped her chin on the little wizard’s shoulder. “What about…hm, what about the mermaid?” she suggested, nodding to the tiny figure that was more based on muggle interpretations instead of what mermaids actually looked like. The small blonde figure smiled and waved up at Harry.

“Mmmm, no.”

Hermione tried again. “The unicorn?”

“Noooooooo, it po’ges me!” Harry wiggled, remembering the time he’d sat on the little horned beastie. 

“Quit picking the girly ones!” Ron turned off the taps, now that the tub was full enough. “And it’s supposed to be his turn to pick, anyway!”

“He is! I was only making suggestions–!” Hermione started to protest, but stopped when she felt a series of gentle taps on her arm. “A’mione,” Harry said, patting her with the tips of his fingers to get her attention. “A’mione…!”

“Yes, darling, what is it?” she cooed, putting all of her attention back on him, and kissed his cheek. 

“This one, pleeeea’ssse,” Harry said, hitting a soft hiss on his ‘s’, as he often did when he was Little. He held up one of his muggle toys; a squat, plastic green frog, with different coloured spots on its back that played different musical notes when you pressed them. 

“Oh, I like that one, too!” She patted his bottom through his towel; “Alright, stand up so we can take that nappy off, then Ron can put you in the bath!”

Harry did as he was told with no fuss, being the happy sort of Little that he was, now that he knew he would be safe and cared for whenever he regressed. It had taken a long, long time–years, in fact–to work through the trauma from his actual childhood (or lack thereof), but it had been worth it. Was still worth it. 

Hermione watched with a faint smile as Ron took over and stripped Harry of his sodden nappy…the little pink bunny’s that were supposed to hop around the waist band when it was dry were no longer hopping, and only thumped their back feet grumpily. “Uh-oh,” Harry told Ron with a cheeky smile, and giggled when he looked down and saw them. 

…It would always be worth it. For smiles and giggles and sweet kisses on the cheek and forehead and tummy, Even for the tears on long, hard nights when memories would sneak back in uninvited, for the cuddles after the tears, those warm bottles on those late nights spent in the rocking chair…

Those moments were forever worth it. 

Hermione was suddenly pulled from her sentimental musings by one of Ron’s loud squawkings, and looked up just in time to see the little dragon sitting in Harry’s hand, blowing a stream of water directly into Ron’s face. 

She joined along in Harry mischievous laughing, until she nearly giggled herself right off the toilet. 

Of course, the moments like that were _especially_ worth it.


	20. Day Twenty: In a carseat (Greg/John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s Fine! 😭 I saw how happy you were for Harry and thought I could throw out some other fandoms I haven’t seen you write for yet . Maybe Jawn and Greg for Day 20 instead ?"

Christ, what a mess.

“G'eg?”

Greg opened the back door to the car, and went to lift Jawn into the car seat (booster seat, really; one of the big ones for kids who were still under certain height\weight requirements).

“G'eg?” Jawn asked again, frowning as he watched Greg buckle him in. Needless to say, he was not a fan of the carseat. Same with baby leashes, or the high chair, or the crib (if he had to be in there by himself)…any sort of confinement, really. “Where go'een?”

“We have to go pick your Daddy up.” Greg gave the buckle a tug to make sure it was secured.

“Why?”

“Cause he needs to be picked up, monkey.”

“Where?”

“…From jail,” Greg sighed.

“Wha’d?!?” Jawn sat forward as Greg climbed into the drivers’ seat, straining against the straps.

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Greg said quickly. “Nobody’s hurt, monkey; it’s just a silly little mix-up because he forgot what ‘tier four’ means…apparently,” Greg grumbled.

Jawn didn’t believe him. Well, halfway…he believed that Daddy wasn’t hurt, or G’eg would be a lot more worried. “I’m si’d wi’f you,” Jawn decided, and went to unbuckle himself.

“Ah-ah, don’t you dare!”

“G’eg! Why come I can’d?!?” Jawn fussed.

“Because.”

“A’cause why no’d?!?”

Greg started the car and looked over his shoulder before pulling out into the street. “Because your Daddy will end up right back in jail.”

“Huh?”

“Because he’ll kill me if he sees you sitting up here and not in your carseat.”


	21. Day Twentyone: Sick Little being bottle-fed by his/her/their caregiver/friend/lover (Thor/Bruce Banner/Tony)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sick Tony with Cg Thor (and/or Bruce) for Day 21 please"

“So, it was the shot that caused him to fall ill?” Thor asked, his brow etched with concern as he watched the tiny little man bundled up on his chest, fast asleep. Thor gently laid a broad hand on his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of each raspy breath, as well as the feverish heat radiating off of him. “I thought it was supposed to prevent the sickness…?”

“No, I said it was a _reaction_ to it,” Bruce repeated. He held the small baby thermometer in Tony’s ear until it beeped, then read the results on the little screen…99.8. Low grade, as he’d expected. “It means his immune system’s working hard and doing what it should, that’s all.” 

“But none of the others had a fever befall them.”

Bruce popped the disposable, protective cover off the thermometer into the trash can. “None of the others live on Red Bull and three hours of sleep when their Daddy isn’t looking,” he added, pulling out his phone and tapping on it rapidly.

"Ah, true,” Thor conceded, and placed a soft kiss on Tony’s clammy forehead. “Is there anything we can do to aid in his healing?”

“Let him sleep as long as he wants, and really push on the fluids.”

“Push on…?”

“Make sure he drinks enough of anything that’s not Red Bull,” Bruce clarified,a and stuck his phone back in his pocket. “And give him a couple of the chewable fever-reducers when he wakes up.” 

On cue, as if he knew he were the topic of discussion, Tony suddenly began to stretch and snuffle on Thor’s chest. He cracked his eyes open, and searched around until his foggy gaze landed on Thor. 

Thor smiled back at him, his eyes going soft. “Welcome back to the Land of the Waking, little warrior,” he rumbled, and carefully hitched Tony higher on his chest and patted his bottom. “Did you sleep well?”

Tony mewled, and snuggled closer.

“I think we should start shoving those liquids,” Thor told Bruce without taking his eyes off of Tony for a moment.

“Great.” Bruce moved closer and plopped down on the couch next to the towering god. “I’ll take him while you go make a bottle,” he said, and held out his arms expectantly. 

“Uh, come again?”

“Later.” Then, without missing a beat, Bruce continued; “C’mon, man, you’ve had him all day! S’my turn to hold the baby!”

Thor, whether consciously or unconsciously, shifted Tony to his other shoulder. “…I wanted to do that, though.”

“You can give him the next one!” Bruce pouted. “I swear to God—not you–let me hold him or I’m gonna bring out the Big Guy.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Try me, Malibu Ken.”

“…What?!”

“Shut up, Tony’s better at nicknames.”

Thor still didn’t know what the hell that meant, but before he could push the argument further, Tony snuffled into his neck and began to cry.

“See, he heard us say ‘bottle’,” Bruce said as he inched closer, hands still held out, waiting. 

“So why don’t you–!?”

“No.”

“Ba’-ba’-ba’-ba’!” Tony babbled, distressed. 

Thor’s face fell, along with any desire to argue. “…Fine,” he grumbled, and ever-so-carefully eased the poor, ill-feeling little man from his lap to Bruce’s eagerly waiting arms. 

“Hey, Tones,” Bruce cooed as he tucked Tony into the crook of his arm. “Yeah, I know, you don’t feel good at all, huh.” He leaned over and snagged one of the blankets draped over the couch and wrapped it around the little guy. “Well, we’re gonna fix that, yeah? Just as soon as Thor brings us a bottle, yes!”

Thor crossed his arms, looking awfully moody since he’d been made to give up the baby. “And where are the chewy things you said…?”

“Oh, don’t worry about those,” Bruce said, smiling at Tony as he patted his bottom. “And you don’t need to make a bottle, actually.”

Thor blinked at him; “Why.”

Bruce looked up at him, still smiling, and held his hand out…as the empty space next to him started to sputter and flicker to life in a shower of orange sparks.

A portal. 

A gloved hand reached through, and placed a bottle of children’s chewable Tylenol into Bruce’s waiting hand. It disappeared, and then reappeared with Tony’s favorite Cookie Monster bottle, already full of what Thor assumed to be warm milk. Bruce took it, and then the hand reached further until it gently booped Tony on the nose, making him smile and gurgle.

“…I just wanted an excuse to get you to hand over the baby,” Bruce said, his shit-eating grin growing even wider. “Thanks, Stephen.”

The hand gave a thumbs up, and then retreated. The portal then closed.

Thor…was speechless. 

… _Almost_ speechless. “You jolly green jackass.”

“He-ey, you’re getting good at those!”


	22. Day Twenty two: In a cute lil' sweater  (Harry/Ron)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lil sweater made me think of the Weasley Christmas Sweaters soooo 👀 Smol Harry visiting for the holidays?"

“Wait, Harry…no! Stop! Get back here, you little–!”  
  
Of course, Harry did _not_ stop, nor did he ‘get back here’. He took off like a shot down the hallway, giggling like a fiend, and was halfway down the stairs when Ron came out of the bedroom, waving Harry’s trousers bunched in his fist. “I said COME BACK!”

Harry, clad only in a fresh nappy and his brand new, baby-soft jumper that Mrs. Weasley had given him just that morning, darted down the stairs and into the kitchen. Mr. Weasley was sat at the table, looking over one of Harry’s muggle toys (that he promised to take _very_ good care of!), while Mrs. Weasley was busy and buzzing about with trays of various cookies and pastries and other sweeties.

Harry dove under the kitchen table and hugged himself to Arthur’s legs while he caught his breath.

And none too soon! Not even a full five seconds later, Ron burst into the kitchen, red-faced and out of breath. “Where,” he heaved as he staggered against the door frame; “did he go?!”

Molly turned to put a plate of beautifully decorated Christmas cookies on the table in front of her husband. "Who, dear?" she asked sweetly. 

“You know good and well who!” Ron shook the trousers at her.

“Afraid we have no idea who you’re talking about, son,” Arthur said, casually taking a cookie from the plate, and passing it under the table without looking up.

“Ah-HA!” Ron leapt forward and reached under the table, grabbing a single, wriggling ankle while Harry shrieked in delight, even through a mouthful or cookie crumbs and icing. “C’mere, you little shi–!”

“RONALD!” Molly scolded while Arthur began to cackle.

“Well, the little…bugger ran off on me!” Ron shouted over the squealing as he dragged a kicking, squealing overgrown toddler out from under the table.

“Hel’b, Ar’fur! Hel’b!” Harry cried as he grasped at Arthur's trouser leg, much to the man's cackling delight.

“Oh, leave him be, Ron….and quit dragging his new jumper along the _floor!_ ” Mrs. Weasley had taken painstaking measures to get the lovely baby blue and cream-striped jumper made, with it’s little bunny face on the front that would twitch it’s nose and whiskers when the wearer was extremely happy…and she was _not_ thrilled to be seeing it treated as a common floor mop!

“He can’t run around naked!” Ron shouted over Harry to be heard as he tried to wrangle him into his lap.

“Is he in a clean nappy??”

“Yes, but–!”

“Then he’s not naked!” Molly bent down with her hands on her knees; “Harry, darling?” she asked sweetly.

The squealing stopped almost instantaneously. “Y’ah?”

“Would you like to help me make the fudge?” Molly offered him her hand; “You can be my little taste-tester!”

A positively radiant grin spread across Harry’s face. “Ye’sh, pea’ssssse!” He scrambled to get out of Ron’s lap and maybe sort of accidentally gave him an elbow in the gut for all of his grumbling.

“Fine,” Ron muttered…once he got his breath back, at least. “See how long it is before I change your soggy bum again!”

Harry grinned a sneaky grin at him over his shoulder as he stood next to Molly, and waggled his bum.

“Brat.”


	23. Day Twenty three: A pull-up accident (Bruce Wayne/Dick Grayson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For Day 23, more Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson? :)"

“Dick.”

Dick Grayson shook his head ‘no’ vigorously, making his bangs flop over in his eyes.

“Go potty.”

Dick folded his arms over his chest with a huff and tucked his chin down.

Bruce kept his expression blank. It was a fit, yes, but an adorable one.

He wasn’t about to let Dick know that, though. “One,” he counted, and was met with the poutiest bottom lip as Dick glared up at him. 

“You told me you wanted to be a big boy today,” Bruce said as he knelt down to Grayson’s level…which was floor level, while playing with his Legos. Which also made Bruce cautious about where he was kneeling. “And big boys use the potty.”

“I don’t ha'ffa go!” Dick grumped. He _was_ a big boy, and that meant HE decided when he needed to go potty…and now was not the time! 

“I’ve watched you do the potty squirm for the past ten minutes.”

“Don’ wa'ss me, then!” 

“Do not use that tone with me, young man.”

Dicks’ frown only deepened as he turned his attention back to the castle he’d been painstakingly constructing for the past hour. Nobody could make him do _nothing_ he didn’t want to. He didn’t have to go. He’d show Da’da he wasn’t right all the time! And he wasn’t fighting the urge to squeeze his legs together! Or wiggle! Or…!

“Two. You know that if I get to three, it means a spanking,” Bruce warned.

“Noooooo!” Dick whined, wiggling unhappily (which,sadly, didn’t help stem the urge like he hoped it would) “I don’ ha'ffa–!”

Bruce sighed…contrary to the wildly popular beliefs of his children, he didn’t always want to be ‘mean Da’da’. He didn’t like counting to three anymore than they did. “We’re going,” he said, standing back up. He stepped around behind Dick and before the little guy could scurry away, scooped him up under the arms and lifted him onto his hip. 

“ _Nooooo_ , wai’d!” Dick wailed. He struggled against Bruce as he carried him towards the bathroom, trying anything to break his grip; he shoved with his hands and he kicked with his feet until Bruce finally had enough and reached over to give his mostly unprotected backside a sharp swat and that was the worst thing he could do, because then he…he couldn’t…he…

…He couldn’t hold it. 

He felt the hot flood he’d been holding back finally release, filling his pull-up from front to back in an instant and begin dribbling down his legs. 

Bruce stood still. And silent. Which Dick couldn’t decide made anything better or worse. he blushed furiously, and buried his face in the crook of his Da’da’s neck. 

“…Was that, on purpose.”

“N-noooo,” Dick stammered, furiously trying to blink back tears. He was in _so_ much trouble. 

And he very much was, a Bruce was already scanning the room for a place to sit and take a certain stubborn little boy over his knee…until he heard the distinct, teary sniffle that meant said little boy was being sincere. 

Bruce reached up to rub Dicks’ back; “You, little boy, are going right back into diapers,” he told him with a resigned sigh, and shifted him on his now-soaked hip as he continued to carry him out of the room. “…After Alfred draws us a bath.”

Dick sat up and peered at him; “…Bubb’as?” he asked timidly, his words muffled by his thumb in his mouth. 

Bruce remembered the attitude he’d gotten just as few short minutes ago. “No.”

The corners of Dicks’ mouth turned down into a pout, and he laid his head back down with a quiet whimper. 

_Damn_. 

“…Maybe.”


	24. Day Twenty four: In a cute Christmas outfit (Severus/Harry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Christmas outfit: Harry in a reindeer onesie or hoodie, with Professor Snape taking care of him :) "

“I see that the Weasley’s have sent you back packed full of sugar, as always ” Severus drawled, watching Harry in the corner of his eye as he unpacked his little one's bags from his weekend trip.

“I! Hel'bed! Ma'ge! Fudge!” Harry giggled breathlessly with each jump upon his Daddy’s bed. His bed was the best for jumping, because it was big and wide and extra springy…!

“Harry, what did I say about jumping?” Severus pulled out what must be Harry’s present from Molly, and actually smiled when enchanted whiskers on the bunny’s face swished at him. The woman knew how to knit a damn good jumper, he would give her that. “I’d rather not have to visit Madam Pomfrey at this hour for a bumped head,” he told his own little hoppy bunny.

Harry hopped from one corner of the bed to the other; "Harry!” he grumbled, lowering his voice to imitate the older wizard; “I’b you bra’ge my bed I bra’ge you bum!”

“So you _do_ know how to listen.”

“Bu’d!” _-bounce_ -“You!”- _bounce_ -”C’n!”- _bounce_ -”Fi’ss!”- _bounce_ -”I’d!”- _bounce_ -

"Not the point." Severus folded the jumper and set it back on top of Harry’s bag; “Potter,” he said in the old way he used to scold his former student as he turned towards the bed, hands on his hips.

Harry covered his mouth and continued to jump…silly Daddy! Had he forgotten that that didn’t scare him anymore?!

Severus raised his eyebrow at him, and then quietly muttered and enchantment that froze the springs in his mattress in place.

Harry stumbled as his jumping came to a stop, and fell forward onto his hands. He frowned and pushed against the mattress, but alas, there was no more jumping. “Awwww…” he pouted as he sat up and poked his bottom lip out at Severus, betrayed.

Severus smirked; Harry was indeed just as much of a brat as he’d always been, but now he was _his_ brat. And, he was an admittedly adorable one.

He stepped towards the edge of the bed and patted his chest with both hands. “Here, little fawn, come see Daddy…did you know I missed you very much?”

Harry may have been put off when his fun was spoiled, but he could never resist Daddy-cuddles! He toddled over on his knees and fell against Severus with a small ‘oof’ from the man. “You mi’sh me?” he asked, propping his chin on Severus’s sternum as he blinked up at him.

“Very, very much.” Severus bent down and kissed Harry’s forehead before bundling him up in his arms. “It was much too quiet in these drafty old rooms without my little fawn prancing through the halls.”

Harry gave him a sweet smile before becoming overwhelmed by the warm, fluttery tummy butterflies he got whenever Severus called him ‘fawn’, and bashfully buried his face in the crook of his Daddy’s neck.

“Silly boy…here, come show Daddy everything you got from the Weasley’s. You clearly made out like a bandit,” Severus said, placing another kiss on Harry’s shoulder as he carried his little one over to his bags. “Like this,” he said, plucking at the cozy, plush onesie he was wearing. “Who thought to give my little fawn his antlers?”

“A’mione!” Harry squeaked, peeking out at him.

“Of course she did, she’s brilliant that way.” Severus sat Harry’s bum on top of the dresser next to the bag, so he could have a free hand. “And a jumper from Molly…did you tell her ‘thank you’?”

“Uh-huh!” Harry babbled. “I y’ub i’d!”

“It does look warm…I may borrow it sometime,” Severus teased, his smile growing broader as Harry giggled at the thought of his Daddy trying on his bunny jumper.

“What did Ron get you, darling?”

Suddenly, there was a gleam in Harry’s eye at the mention of Ron…a mischievous gleam. ‘ _…Oh no_ ,’ Severus thought.

“W’on got’ted me _wa’der guns!_ ” Harry squealed, diving waist deep into the bag and coming up with two alarmingly huge, plastic cylinders with bright orange and yellow nozzles.

Severus didn’t know exactly what ‘water guns’ were, but if the word ‘water’ and the larges nozzles were anything to go by…

“I see,” he said, dryly.

“Remind me to send him a nice jar of slugs as a ‘thank you’.”


	25. Day Twenty five: Wearing a cute formal outfit (John/Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was rereading your Ficlets on ao3 recently and was reminded of gender fluid Sherlock. Could daddy John give fem Sherlock a pretty Christmas dress for dinner at Mycroft’s for the formal wear prompt?"

“There we are!” John said as he finished tying the bow with a flourish. “Turn around and let’s see how pretty!“ 

Sherlock slowly turned around to show off his pretty new Christmas dress that Mycroft had had delivered bright and early that morning, specifically to wear to the dinner party that night.

Custom made with his baby brother in mind, it was a dress that any little girl would love to have in her wardrobe: made of a pale, baby pink velvet with a sash around the middle, with soft (faux) fur lining the cuffs, and the skirt…oh, the skirt! That was John’s favorite part, with the layers of matching pink tulle and the pearl-inlaid snowflakes that encircled the bottom hem.

It was adorable, and the pink was just the right shade to accentuate the natural blush of Sherlock’s cheeks and lips just like a little doll (which John was fairly certain is why Mycroft selected it). 

He would have expected Sherlock, who _loved_ receiving new clothes (especially little skirts and dresses), would be over the moon with such a pretty new dress, but when his little one turned around, John was surprised to see him pouting. "What’s the matter, darling? Did Daddy tie it too tight?” John tucked a finger in the sash to see.

Sherlock shook his head, his bottom lip still poking out. “No.”

“Then what’s wrong, baby? Don’t you like it?”

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip as he looked down at his dress, his fingers playing with the fuzzy cuffs; “Why, um…why I can’d wear my El'sha one?” he asked John, his eyes pleading.

Ahhh, so that was it. John gave a quiet laugh and took Sherlock’s hands in his own; “Because the Elsa dress is a play costume, sweetheart, and this isn’t a costume party.”

“Bu’d i'sh pre'ddier!” Sherlock insisted, stomping a stockinged foot.

John cocked his head at that. “Oh, yeah? Is that it, is it? So, we need to make your bum match, too?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock…and then began brimming with tears. His chin dimpled and he ducked his head a split second before John heard him start to cry.

John softened…okay, that might have been a bit harsh, considering. “Hey, look,” he said, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He still held Sherlock’s hands, and now he drew his pretty little one closer, until he had the baby straddling his lap. “Look,” he said again as he wrapped him in a hug and started to gently rock him; “that was mean, and Daddy’s sorry.”

Sherlock wilted against John as he had a good cry…he’d only wanted to wear his Elsa dress because it was pretty, and Mycroft’s party was going to be fancy, and he had nothing fancier than his Queen Elsa dress! And he wanted everyone to see it! And it was perfect, because it was blue, and snowflakes were supposed to be blue, a’cause Frozen, and Elsa could make snow, and–!

“D-don’ b-be ma-ad,” he hiccuped in John’s ear.

“Shh, no, I’m not mad,” John said as he swayed Sherlock back and forth, and rubbed a comforting hand along his back. “Daddy’s not mad, muffin, but you know stomping out feet doesn’t get us what we want, yeah?”

Sherlock sniffle and nodded, rubbing his cheek along John’s shirt. “Y-y’ah.”

John sighed; “Daddy’s sorry, you know that?” he asked, reaching under Sherlock’s dress to pat his bottom.

“Sh-sh’orry,” Sherlock parroted, and then slipped his thumb in his mouth as his tears began to slow.

“And that I love you very, very much? Did you know that, too?”

There was a teary, muffled “Y’ub’oo,” from the direction of his shoulder.

Crap. He still felt like an asshole. “Alright, I’ll tell you something we can do. Let’s sit up and look at Daddy, okay?”

Sherlock slowly sat up, still looking a little shaky and crestfallen with his wet lashes and tear-stained cheeks, but…John had a plan. “So, we can’t wear the Elsa dress tonight, BUT-” he held a finger up as Sherlock’s bottom lip began to quiver; “-there _is_ a surprise in your stocking that you can open early and wear with your pretty new dress.”

Sherlock sniffled again, and John was quick to catch his arm before he could rub his nose along the delicate fabric (and create a whole new problem). “Ah’pise?”

“A surprise,” John repeated, grinning. He kissed Sherlock on the cheek and scooted him off of his lap. “Go get it; it’s the little blue box with the Elsa sticker on it.”

Sherlock padded off into the sitting room and went to the fireplace, where the stockings were hung. John followed close behind, with a knowing (and slightly smug) smile on his face.

Sherlock fished around in his stocking until he found the small blue jewelry box with the Elsa sticker, just as John said. “O’ben…?” he asked, throwing a glance at John, who nodded back.

Sherlock looked back down and carefully cracked the box open…and gasped.

There, sparkling in the velvet lining of the box, was a crystal necklace in the shape of a snowflake. And in the center, there held tiny blue, purple, and pink stones in the shape of symbols from the second movie.

“…Bette than an Elsa dress?” John asked, no longer able to wait for Sherlock’s reaction.

“YE’SH!!!” Sherlock threw himself around John squeezed. “I’sh sh’o _pre’ddy_!!!” he babbled, and placed kiss after kiss after kiss on John’s cheek. “ _F’ank’oo_!!!”

“Gee, we can always take it back if you don’t like it,” John teased, giggling.

“NO! MINE!”

John only laughed harder, though he should have told the baby not to shout. “So, you like it?”

“I y’ub i’d!” Sherlock babbled, turning the box this way and that to catch the light.

“Can Daddy put it on for you–” John barely had time to finish his sentence before Sherlock was pushing the box into his hands. “P’eash p’eash p’eash!”

“Okay, okay okay okay, hold your pampers on!” John chuckled. “We’ll put this on and then we _have_ to finish getting ready, muffin, or we’ll be late and I’ll be the one in big, big trouble. Turn around.”

Sherlock turned his back to him and held his curls out of the way as John fastened the clasp, and let the necklace settle against his collarbone.

“Aw, that’s lovely,” he said, watching Sherlock gingerly touch the jeweled pendant as he looked at it in the mirror above the fireplace. “You’ll be the bell of the ball.”

“No’d Belle,” Sherlock said, gazing at his reflection wistfully, his eyes sparkling more than the crystals.

“ _El’sha_.”


	26. Day Twenty six: With a babysitter (Bucky/Steve/Natasha/Thor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Baby Steve being babysat by Thor and being upset because he wants Daddy Bucky???"
> 
> "Hello! Anon who made the Steve request here: Can I amend my ask by Adding Mommy Natasha to the scenario too???"

“Watch out baby, let Mommy just–wait, hang on, just a second!” Natasha side-stepped around Steve to get into her closet and finish gathering up her knives. Oh, and the grenades. Both the flash ones and blow-shit-up ones. “Do you have enough ammo?!” she called out to Bucky, who was in another part of the house doing the same mad-dash grab over every weapon he could think of.

“Yeah!” he called back. “I mean, I can make it enough!”

Steve kept his tightfisted grip on the pocket of her jeans as he toddled around after her, dragging his blanket close behind and hoping that he could be cute enough to maybe change her and Papa’s minds about not taking him with them.

Nat bent to tuck a large, serrated knife into the back of her boot, and nearly knocked Steve over in her haste. “Aw, baby!” She clasped his face in her hands and kissed his forehead; “Why don’t you go sit with Thor, baby boy, before Mommy steps on you by accident!”

Steve pouted at her behind his pacifier and gave her his best puppy-dog eyes.

Nat sighed; “Baby, please,” she said, touching her forehead to his; “I just…Mommy loves you _so_ much, doodlebug-”

Steve felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe she was going to say–!

“-but you can’t come with us this time.” She stood back and kissed the front of his paci, and brushed her fingers through his hair while giving him a sympathetic look before calling for Bucky again; “You ready?!”

“As ready as we’re gonna get!”

“Are you sure you both wouldn’t like some help?” Thor ventured from the kitchen, where he was calmly making a peanut butter sandwich while he waited.

Nat rushed into the room while patting herself down to account for every available hiding place having a blade, with Steve toddling right behind, his hand still tucked in her pocket. “You’re helping us enough here,” she said, nodding towards the already misty-eyed baby.

Bucky entered the room a step behind, throwing his jacket over what had to be Rambo-levels of heavy duty artillery. “You ready?” he asked Natasha.

“I asked you first,” she said, watching as Steve finally pried himself free of her pocket and patter over to Bucky, squeaking to be picked up. “Deal with that first, then we gotta go,” she said, half-smiling as she gestured to their stage-5 clinger.

“Heeey, big boy,” Bucky lifted Steve up and sat him on his hip. “You’re gonna stay here and take care of Thor, okay? It’s your job to keep him from being lonely and playing videogames all night.”

Across the room, Thor snorted.

Steve blinked at Bucky with big, wet eyes, and then pointed to himself. “Hm?” he hummed.

“Yeah, you! It’s all you tonight, big man!” Bucky poked Steve’s tummy, making him scrunch over giggling, and then gave him a big, smacking wet kiss on the cheek. “Love you, baby,” he said, placing Steve on his feet. “Keep Thor safe and make him eat something other than poptarts.”

Nat followed Bucky out the door, and stopped to turn back halfway through to blow Steve a kiss because she knew that if she got close enough to kiss him for real, he was going to latch on again and then they’d have a terrible problem. “Bye, baby, we’ll be back soon! Keep Thor on his toes!” she said, and then both she and Bucky, were gone.

“As if there were anything _wrong_ with playing videogames all night,” Thor muttered. Of course, he’d known what they were doing, trying to give the Little One a sense of pride and purpose to ease the sense of being left behind…but still, they didn’t have to aim so far below the belt.

He hardly even ate poptarts anymore. One box a week, at best.

“Young Steve!” he said jovially, clapping his hands together in excitement. “What shall we partake in first this evening?! A race with the Karts of Mario? A hunt for eight-legged beasts at the Animal’s Crossing? Or–”

Thor stopped.

Steve stood in front of the back door where Bucky and Nat had left, hugging his blanket to his chest and staring as if he were waiting for them to come back and tell him they were being silly, that they needed him, him _and_ Thor, and tell them to ready up…

But they didn’t.

Hot, stinging tears welled in Steve’s eyes, turning his vision blurry until they spilled over down his cheeks. He took a deep, shaky breath and, letting his pacifier fall out of his mouth, began to wail.

Ah, he’d been waiting for that. Thor pushed off of the counter he’d been leaning against and bundled Steve up into his arms with no resistance from the little one. “Poor little warrior,” he cooed, and stooped to fetch the pacifier from the floor with two fingers. “This battle was just out of your scope this time, brave one. Maybe next time.”

“I, I , I, w-wan’ned g-go toooo,” Steve cried, his chest heaving with every heartbroken sob.

“I know, I know,” Thor sympathised as he draped Steve’s blanket over his shuddering body and thumped his hand against his back, firmly but gently. “I too hate missing out on a good fight, but you know what? There’s always another!”

Steve sat up to look at Thor. “A-ah’nuvver?” he asked, with two of his fingers in his mouth in place of his missing pacifier.

“It’s the one thing you can count on in life,” Thor said, sounding neither pleased or disappointed by the fact, but just…accepting. “But, in the meantime,” he added with a sly smile as he wiped away Steve’s tears with his thumb; “we have a battle of our own against the Brothers of Smash?!”

"P-pa’ba say’ed, um, n-no v-vid–” Steve stammered through the last of his tears.

“Ah, but he said ‘not _all_ night’, and we won’t,” Thor told him, with a twinkle in his eye; “because we’ll have to take a break when we join our other friend’s later tonight.”

Steve sucked on his fingers and blinked at Thor.

“I believe Tony mentioned something about ‘building bears’ when he heard you’d be stuck with me.”

A small smile spread across Steve’s lips. “To’nee?!”

Thor gave Steve a bounce in his arms; “Of course. A ‘playdate’, he said. Does the idea appeal to you?”

“Y’ah!” Steve giggled, clinging to Thor’s neck.

“Then it’s a plan. But first–” Thor took Steve and held him out at arms’ length and narrowed his eyes; “–I believe I can kick your nappied butt all over Yggdrasil’s Altar.”

Steve gaped at him; “Nu- **UH**! I ki’g yours!” he said, kicking out and narrowly missing a very sensitive part of Thor’s anatomy, making the god laugh loudly.

“Game on then, little warrior!”


	27. Day Twenty seven: Cuddling a stuffie (Molly/Sherlock/John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Miss Sadie I saw this giant unicorn and thought Molly would love a unicorn like this from Sherlock and Uncle John! "

John came up behind his chair (because, of course Sherlock had chosen _his_ chair to sit in) and propped his elbows on the back of the seat. “She hasn’t moved yet?”

“Not in the past fifteen minutes.”

“Wow.” John sounded impressed. He took a sip of his morning coffee before passing the cup to Sherlock; “I don’t think we’re going to get that to fit in the back of a cab.” 

Sherlock chuckled; “You should have thought of that when you bought it,” he said warmly. Between that, and the expression on his face as he watched Molly with her newest (and best, apparently) present, John figured that he wasn’t all that worried about the logistics. 

The steaming cup was passed back to John, who carefully forged a path through the minefield of discarded wrapping paper, bows, boxes, and gifts until he made his way to the coffee table, and sat there. “Molly? Cupcake?…You still with us?” he asked, tilting his head to look at her. 

In the middle of the shredded, post-Christmas hurricane mess, sat Molly and her brand-new, giant (okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, as four feet long is hardly ‘giant’…but not by much!) pink unicorn plushie. 

She was sat on the back of it, as if it were a _real_ horse, and twirled her fingers in its glittery white mane while lazily sucking on her dummy. She didn’t even acknowledge when John spoke.

“Oh my God,” John laughed, and looked up at Sherlock; “it’s like she’s _high_.”

“High on headspace,” Sherlock huffed a laugh. “And glitter.”

“We’re not going to be ale to get her off of it,” John said. “And we’ve got to get ready to go to your brother’s before we’re late and he sends in Greg and the whole Yard.”

“He can wait,” Sherlock sneered, waving his hand. “It’s Christmas for another fifteen hours.”

“Shu’ddup, you know he and Greg love having a full house. We both need to shave and change, then we’ve got to her changed, pack bags, and then pick up this mess.”

“Oh, that’s _certainly_ not going to happen.” Sherlock eyed the piles of wrapping paper and empty boxes. “Not before we leave.”

“It will if you fancy being able to sit comfortably all day.” John got up and headed for the kitchen, patting Sherlock’s shoulder as he passed. “Go ahead and get her up, love. She needs more than her clothes changed.”

Sherlock sighed as John disappeared into the kitchen. He was right, of course (though Sherlock would never admit it), and he actually was looking forward to another holiday spent with his brother (he’d never admit _that_ , either…not while he was Big, anyway). 

He sat up and stretched, then groaned as he shoved out of John’s chair. “Come along, darling,” he said, paying no mind as he stepped and stomped over piles of paper with satisfying crunches and crackles. He stopped and reached down for her; “Let’s go get a dry bum and a pretty dress on.”

Molly slowly turned her head and blinked up at him, still in her unicorn-clouded haze, and whimpered as she clung to her toys’ neck. 

“They can come with us. I’m sure we have something that’ll fit a four foot tall stuffed animal.”

Molly hesitated. She didn’t want to let go of her new friend for an instant, but…

She gazed up at Sherlock again, and he wiggled his fingers at her, waiting. 

…Okay. She could trust him. She held her arms up and let him lift her off of Delilah (she’d spent the better part of the past twenty minutes thinking of a name, and that one _felt_ perfect) and, just as Molly knew he would, then grabbed the unicorn by her horn and lay her on his other shoulder. “Have you named them yet?” he asked, kissing her on the cheek as he carried them both towards the bedroom. 

“D’yi’yah,” she slurred, reaching across Sherlock’s back to hold her new friend’s ear. 

“Delilah, is it? A very fancy name for a fancy girl…I like it.” he stopped to kick the door open with his foot, and then proceeded to carry and playfully toss his armloads onto the bed with a happy squeal. “Would Delilah like to wear a dress, too?”

Molly scooped her back up in an instant, and buried her face in her soft, plush fur. “Uh-huh!”

God, but she was cute. Sherlock knelt down to retrieve the nappy supplies from their place under the bed. “And a nappy? Does she need a nappy, too?”

“Nooooooo!” Molly peeked out at him with one eye. “She ha’bs a tay’ull!”

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow. “I do believe I can modify a nappy to fit around a tail, Molly.”

She turned her whole face towards him, her mouth dropping open in surprise. “You c’n do tha’d?” 

“Why do you think Uncle John’s nickname is ‘monkey’?”


	28. Day Twenty eight: In a crib/nursery (Sherlock/Molly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That last one shot got me remembering how much I love little Molly! Could we get another Molly for day 28? Maybe she keeps finding a way to get out of a crib during nap time/bedtime?"

For once, Sherlock couldn’t figure something out. And that bugged him.

Every time they would put Molly in something that was supposed to keep her in place…it wouldn’t. Be it the high chair, the playpen, the booster seat, the baby harness (that they’d gotten _specifically_ for her!!), the crib…without fail, she’d find a way to finagle herself out of it.

Every. Single. Time.

And it drove Sherlock _bonkers_. 

Of course, keeping in mind the fact that she wasn’t a literal baby accounted for a lot of it. She would just unbuckle herself from the highchair, or unlatch the playpen, and then count on being adorable to keep from getting into too much trouble. Which worked, for the most part…save for the time Mycroft caught her picking some not-to-be-picked flowers in his garden when she was meant to be behind the baby gate. 

She really got the back of her nappy dusted for that one. 

But the crib…that was the one that confused the hell out of Sherlock. So did the harness to a lesser extent, because those buckles were in the back, but as they used the crib more often than the harness, it took more priority to be sorted out.

Plus, he had found no way to unlatch the crib when _he_ was tiny, so there might possibly maybe, be the smallest amount of one-upmanship at play. 

The crib was meant for adults, with the latches on the outside that were blocked from sneaky, reaching hands from the inside by strategically placed bars that made the space too narrow to squeeze through. They were also too tall for even Sherlock to climb out, if he ever wanted, so they were definitely too tall for Little Miss Muffet to climb her tuffet over. 

Now, there was a fail safe built into the bottom of the crib in case of emergency, in the form of a trapdoor under the mattress…but every single time Sherlock or John were awoken by their tiny escapee climbing into bed with them (or by getting into something she shouldn’t and making an awful lot of noise), that would be the first thing that they checked. 

And every, single time, the door would still be latched. From the _inside_.So she was still getting out some other way. 

So, that night, when Sherlock was awoken at the bright and early hour of 3 am by a certain little Houdini plopping her pampered bottom onto his midsection and driving every particle of air out of his lungs, he was determined to figure this out once and for all. 

“Alright,” he said, scooping her up once he caught his breath again (and while John lay over on his side, pretending to be someone who could laugh in their sleep), and carried her back to the nursery. As expected the crib was still latched and not a single toy or pillow was out of place, and he carefully lifted her over and set her inside. 

Molly clung to the bars on her tiptoes, looking awfully adorable in her p and pouted at him. 

Sherlock stood back, and crossed his arms. “Show me how you do it,” he said. 

Her response was to reach through the bars. “Sha’-sha’!” she pleaded, her tiny fingers grasping the air. 

“Mm, no.” Sherlock walked over to the rocking chair in the corner of the room, and sat down. “Not until you show me. Once you show me, then you can sleep in the big bed tonight.”

Oh. Oh, now _that_ was a hard bargain. Molly plopped down on her bum and pressed her forehead against the bars like a little convict; “Sha’-sha’,” she pleaded one more time, sounding sadder than ever and close to tears. 

Sherlock sat back, propped his arm up, and set his chin on his hand as he creaked the rocker back and forth, slowly. 

He could wait. 

Molly sighed…the prospect of sleeping in the big bed and not all by herself behind bars was just too great to resist. She scooted back, and lifted the edge of the mattress, then wedged herself under it as Sherlock watched, gaping at her. 

So it _was_ the fail safe! But how did she–?!

Sherlock continued to watch her, dumbstruck, as she unlatched the panel and slithered her way out, making sure to close it behind her, and crawled out from under the crib with…

Sherlock literally slapped his forehead. A coat hanger. A _fucking_ stretched out coat hanger! 

Molly sat up on her kneed and reached through the bars to lift the mattress up again, and used the coat hanger to hook the patch and lock the panel back in place. Then she sat back on her heels and looked over her shoulder at Sherlock; “Ah-d’ah!” she chirped, holding her tool up proudly. 

“Mm-hmm, ‘ta-da’ indeed,” Sherlock said, pushing himself out of the rocking chair and going to pick her up. “Using a tool like that, like a cartoon character,” he snorted as he sat her on his hip, and kissed her cheek. 

“We named the wrong one ‘monkey’.”


	29. Day Twenty nine: Getting ready to go to bed (Severus Snape/Harry Potter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sadie? Um, could we get more sweet daddy Snape and Harry for 29??? 🥺🥺🥺 Please!"

The time crept by far too fast, in Severus’s opinion, as they went through the rest of Harry’s new gifts from the Weasley’s and the rest of his friends.

Harry had to stop and explain each one in his adorably excited, jabbering way while Severus nodded, until they were well towards the end of his bottomless bag and his little babbling brook of a partner was finally starting to slow down.

The last item, though, was the one that Harry was _most_ excited about. “D’is is for yooooouuuuu,” he said, grinning proudly as he put the small, wax-paper parcel of fudge into his Daddy’s hands.

Severus was genuinely touched…he could not make the trip with his little one this time, for…reasons, but in between all the hussle and bussle of the holiday, they’d still had time to think of him. “This is the fudge that you helped make, isn’t it?” he asked, beaming.

Harry nodded, smiling from ear to ear even as he rubbed his eyes. “Try sh’ome!” he said, stifling a yawn.

“We’ll save it for tomorrow.” Severus tucked the small package in the pocket of his robe and lifted Harry into his arms, thanks to the small weightlessness charm that Severus had cast on all of Harry’s nappies. “It’s bedtime for all tiny witches and wizards.”

“Aww,” Harry whinged, even as he lay his head on the older wizards’ shoulder. “Bu’d i’sh sh’o ear’yee!”

“It is well past midnight, child.” While on the subject of nappies, Severus gave Harry’s a sneaky squeeze, finding him dry.

“Y’ah,’ Harry hugged Severus around the neck as he was carried out of the nursery and down the hall, towards the kitchen and living room. “I’ds ear’yee for a’morrow!”

Severus chuckled…clever little shit. “It’s already tomorrow, pet.”

“E’ssa’ckly! I’sh ear’yee!” he said…or, at least that’s how Harry would’ve replied, if he wasn’t interrupted by his own body betraying him with a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Ah, yes, a solid argument.” Severus walked them into the kitchen area that took up a small part of his quarters at Hogwarts. He opened a cupboard and fetched one of Harry’s glass baby bottles, since Severus got the sense that he felt small enough for one that night. 

Which was fine with him. Smaller Harry was a snuggler, Severus had no greater need right now than to wrap him up in a blanket and give him his bedtime bottle by the fire. 

Harry watched Severus go about preparing his bottle without any further protest…one, because he knew it would be a fruitless effort, and two, he was of the same mindset as his Daddy (without even realizing it) and a warm bottle while bundled in Severus’s lap sound like a dream come true. He couldn’t ask for anything more. 

Well. Maybe _one_ more thing…

“C’n ha’b a sh’tory, Da’yee?” he asked, gently playing with a lock of Severus’s hair by twirling it around his finger. “Jus’ one? P’yea’sh?”

Severus smiled; “Now, how could I say ‘no’ to a please that pretty?” he said fondly, and kissed Harry’s forehead. “One story,” he reiterated and, with bottle in hand and babe in arms, carried them into the sitting room and settled them all nicely into the big, cozy armchair by the fireplace.

He tucked Harry into the crook of his arm and let him stretch out over his lap, getting him nice and comfy before snapping his fingers.

Harry could feel the fire start up behind him, the flames creating a lovely, glowing heat at his back. 

“…What story did have in mind, little fawn.” 

Harry snuggled in deeper–this was his favorite way to lie, tucked in close enough to feel the rumbling of Severus’s voice against his cheek when he spoke, letting it roll over him in a warm, baritone wave. 

He gazed up at his Daddy and shrugged. He didn’t care if Severus read the phone book, for all he cared. 

“Babbity Rabbity…?”

Harry scrunched his nose and shook his head. No, not that one…he’d heard that one waaaaay too many times over the past few days from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. And Hermione. “Some’fin new, p’yea’sh?”

“And entirely new story?”

Harry gave Severus a cheeky grin, and nodded. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute,’ Severus said, and playfully whumped his hand against the back of Harry’s nappy. “Let’s see, something new…” he mused and slipped the nipple of his little one’s mouth; “Do you know the story of Amaria Merona and the Pesky Pixies?”

Harry blinked up at Severus as he suckled, and shook his head. No, he hadn’t. 

But it sounded good.


	30. Day Thirty: Getting rocked to sleep by his/her/their caregiver/friend/lover (Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ms. Sadie I am claiming day 30 for Thorin rocking Bilbo to sleep and giving him forehead kisses. Pretty please! Love, your most favoritest boy :)"

It was well and truly dark by the time Thorin began to shift uncomfortably beneath Bilbo; the ground was cold, and hard, and he was pretty sure he was sitting on a pinecone.

Plus…his pants were still wet from his tipsy sloshing through the stream. “Come on,” he said, nudging the tiny hobbit in his lap; “Let’s get back to the fire before you catch a cold and have something new to fuss about.”

“I don’t fuss that much,” Bilbo grumbled, and begrudgingly climbed off of Thorin’s admittedly cozy lap.

“If you walked as much as you fussed we’d be at the mountain yesterday.”

“If we walked as much as you all drank…” Bilbo muttered under his breath–he could be impulsive, but he wasn’t stupid. And his bum still ached enough to not want to chance a repeat performance.

He stood there while Thorin hauled himself off the ground, waiting to receive his pants before making the trek back to camp, but…they never came.

Thorin breezed right past him, and Bilbo stood there, bare-legged and in shock, before he gathered his wits and trotted after the dwarf. “Thorin, wait!” he hissed. “Give me my pants back!”

“You don’t need them,” Thorin said, pausing by the stream to let the halfling catch up. “It’ll be warm enough by the fire, and we’ll see if you need a change sooner. D'yah want me to pick you up?”

Bilbo was still sputtering for an answer to the ‘change you sooner’ comment, when he processed what the dwarf was saying. “…Pick me up?” he asked.

“What, you like getting your feet wet?”

“Well, no…” Bilbo began to say that he didn’t really mind, because they’d dry just as fast by the fire, but before he could utter another word Thorin was hauling him up and sitting him on his hip before splashing through the stream.

Bilbo sucked in a breath as tender flesh met with the coarse leather and hides from Thorin’s outer layers, but it was far too late to kick up about it now that they were basically back in camp, with the dwarf making a beeline right for the crowded campfire.

Bilbo turned away from them and clung to Thorin as tight as his little fists could manage, and squeezed his eyes shut.

He couldn’t look at them like this, not in just his…not in just his _nappy_. And, he was sure that there were still marks all over the back of his thighs. There really was no good way to explain off a handprint the size of your entire arsecheek.

Bilbo heard the other dwarves talking and laughing amongst themselves, then felt the heat of the fire at his back and sighed…he hadn’t realised just how cold he’d gotten out there in the dark, when all his focus had been on how much his bum hurt and how much Dwalin must have hated him, to strike him like that and then leave him out there, and all because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and…and…

Bilbo sniffed, and rubbed his cheek along Thorin’s coat. He wanted to go home. Or at the very least, go to sleep right away and hope they all packed up and left him in the morning.

But that was impossible, as Thorin was setting him down. On someone’s lap.

Bilbo opened his eyes and cautiously peered up.

…He was on _Dwalin’s_ lap.

Bilbo felt a lump of fear rise in his throat and swallowed thickly, and then–completely against his own will, damn it all!– _whimpered_.

He went to reach for Thorin again, but the other dwarf had already moved past, and was going over to sit between Gloin and Oin.

 _Damn_.

Bilbo felt Dwalin move his arm and tensed up, ready to be forcibly shoved off his lap because of course, he hated Bilbo and his constant nattering and arguing and uselessness and gods, _why_ did Thorin have to put him on _his_ lap, of all the other dwarves and–?!

So, when Bilbo felt a thickly muscled arm wrap around his waist and pull him closer in what felt like a token of affection, he was quite confused.

Doubly so when he reopened his eyes and dared to peek up again, only to be met with a big, whiskery kiss to his forehead.

“No hard feelin’s, burglar?” Dwalin asked, giving the hobbit’s waist a squeeze and a fond smile…which was quite shocking to Bilbo, as he didn’t think he’d ever seen this particular dwarf smile before. He shook his head ‘no’, and then Dwalin returned to his conversation with Bifur…which was mostly a series of grunts and other gruff noises.

Bilbo turned and blinked at the fire…well, this was, unexpected?

Across from them, out of the corner of his eye, Thorin watched. And smiled.

It was then that Bilbo felt a soft, tender pat to his leg, and turned to look–

It was Ori. Sweet, friendly little Ori, smiling at him and offering him a bowl of stew with a sizable chunk of bread with it.

Bilbo’s stomach rumbled at the site, and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since just before noon that day, and he took the bowl gratefully. “Thank you!”

“Eat up, little one…it’s been a long day!” Ori ruffled his hair playfully, and went back to sit with his brothers. Dori looked downright proud of him.

Bilbo took one bite…and then ate ravenously, scooping mouthful after mouthful of surprisingly delicious beef and broth into his mouth, until his spoon was no longer sufficient and he used his bread to sop up the rest instead.

Ah, that was better. Food usually made most things better…at least to Hobbits. He leaned back against Dwalin’s chest, having almost forgotten who’s lap he was sitting in, then folded his hands over his comfortably full belly and closed his eyes. He thought that he felt the small motion of being gently swayed, almost like laying in a hammock…

And then he thought about nothing at all, as he’d fallen deeply asleep, feeling safe and satisfied.


	31. Day Thirty one: New Years Baby (Sherlock/John/Mycroft/Molly/Greg)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe it’s been a month already, and that Christmas is over and in a little less than 24 hours, we’ll be in an entirely new year!
> 
> I’ve loved every second of this past month, from gaining new followers and interacting with them more (both new and old), and writing new fandoms and characters that I’ve never written before, and not only starting a story but FINISHING it within 24 hours!
> 
> So, without further ado, we have the very last prompt for Diapcember, 2020!
> 
> @paddedpartners said: "Hi hi!! I saw you answered my ask and it’s totally okay! Day 30 is a cute prompt!! If 31 is still open I do have something in mind for lil Molly. Could she be over at Mycroft’s for a NYE party with Sherlock and John, all big and enjoying the night when Greg sets off fireworks that startle Molly into headspace? Then the comfort and coddling and cuteness ensues. If it’s been taken though no worries! Thanks for your time 😊 "
> 
> So, it looks like our New Year’s Baby is Molly!

“What, you’re not gonna tell me it’s ‘too much’?” Greg asked, sounding incredulous. 

“Au contraire,” Mycroft replied, before sneaking a sip of champagne from that glass Greg had asked him to hold while posting up the banner over the backdoor that proudly declared, in big, golden, glittery letters, “ **FUCK 2020** ”; “I think it’s perfectly appropriate.” 

“If there’s a word more appropriate than 'appropriate’, it’s that, too,” John added. He stepped back as he held his phone up, trying to get both Greg and the banner in the same picture. “Can we scribble in an addendum, by chance?”

“An addendum?” Greg looked over his shoulder, saw the phone, and pulled a face that was both disgusting and, frankly, hilarious. “What kind of addendum?”

“I was thinking we could add in 'raw’ and 'unlubed arsehole’ in there somewhere.”

“Watch your mouth,” Mycroft said dryly, taking another sip…this time from his own glass. 

“Good thing that I’m Big and can say 'fuck’ as much as I want,” John said and, without looking up from his phone, snapped a picture of Mycroft, who scowled at him. 

“Delete that.”

John grinned and stuck his phone back in his pocket. “Nope.”

“I can still bend you over my knee.”

The mere suggestion made John balk for a second…but _only_ a second. “Nooo, you can’t! Not tonight!”

“I can, depending on what you’re both harping over.” Sherlock entered the kitchen, also carrying two champagne glasses in one hand, his phone in the other. He eyed the banner, then gave both his brother and his boyfriend the once over; “…Double-fisting already, Mycroft?" 

"Only one is mine,” Mycroft sniffed, and handed one of them back to Greg as he came down off the footstool. 

Greg held it up and gave it a critical look; “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure it was fuller than this when I handed it to you,” he said, making both John and Sherlock snicker.

  
“You just don’t remember drinking it,” Mycroft snapped. “And what about you?” he asked, gesturing to the two that Sherlock still held. 

“I took Molly’s. This was her third one and from previous experience, drunken idiots and fireworks don’t mix well.” 

“They do if you want a good laugh,” John muttered.

“And there’s your quote for 2020, straight from one of our upstanding medical personnel.”

“Shuuuut uuuuup.” John held out his hand. “If she’s not drinking it, give it to me. I’m not even close to properly pissed yet.” 

Greg nudged Mycroft’s shoulder; “I’m not sure we should be handing sparklers to a bunch of drunk babies,” he said, and Mycroft hummed in agreement. 

Sherlock handed the other glass to John. “Says the other big, drunken baby.” 

“Speak for yourself!” 

“I’m neither drunk nor a baby, Grissom.”

Greg scoffed into his champagne; “That stopped being funny like, eight years ago,” he said. “And between the two of us, who ends up in nappies more?” 

“When we’re drunk? You are,” Sherlock said, smirking as he watched Greg choke and sputter on a mouthful of bubbly and then shoot Mycroft a very dangerous look, his cheeks flushing. 

Mycroft’s eyes went wide; “I didn’t tell him!” he said, holding up empty hand up to protest his innocence. 

“He really didn’t,” Sherlock cut in…as much as he loved getting Greg’s goat, the last thing he wanted to do was start a fight, especially tonight, of all nights.And _especially_ with Molly there for the weekend. “And it’s not even that big of a deal, but when I noticed the pile of our training pants disappearing at a rate faster than John or I were wearing, well…” he gestured with his hand; “- _someone_ was wearing them.”

Greg switched his gaze back and forth between the brothers, giving them each the stink-eye in turn until he decided that Sherlock was telling the truth. “…Bugger you both. _Raw_ ,” he added, tipping his head back and draining the rest of his champagne in one large gulp.

“Who’s getting buggered raw? Can I watch?” Molly said, smiling brightly as she finally joined them in the kitchen, smoothing down her skirt as she returned from the bathroom. God, champagne always made her have to wee more than anything else! 

“ _Molly!_ ” Mycroft scolded. 

She looked up then and, instead of looking appropriately chastened in her usual way (the elder Holmes hardly ever scolded her, so when he did it was usually enough to break her heart), she started giggling so hard that she snorted. 

Oh, yes, Sherlock had been right…she was _tipsy_. 

That in turn set everyone else off, her contagious little giggle creating a waterfall effect by spreading to Sherlock, then John, then Greg, and finally, Mycroft, until they were all clutching their bellies and wheezing in pain while wiping tears from their cheeks. 

“I, I, I s-still w-wanna watch,” Molly wheezed, out of breath and wiping tears from the end of her nose with the heel of her hand. 

“S-Stop _saying_ that!” Mycroft stammered, covering his face with both hands as he caught his breath. “It’s revolting.”

“You didn’t yell at Greg for saying it!” 

“That’s different! You gross children…!” 

“Je-jesus f-fucking Christ,” John covered his mouth and snuffled into his hand, then coughed to clear his throat.

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose, his shoulder still jiggling slightly as he chuckled. “God…alright, who’s ready for fireworks??”

“Ooo, me!” Molly bounced on her toes. “Can I have a sparkler…wait, where’s my drink??”

“Right here,” John said, and slugged the rest of her glass down much in the way Greg had earlier. 

“Awwww,” Molly sagged with disappointment. “Why’dja do thaaaaat?” she whinged at Sherlock. 

“Because you’ve had enough,” he said, then turned her back towards Greg; “Go get your sparkler,” he said, and sent her off with a pop to her bottom. 

“Staaaaahp!” she said, swatting back at his hand even as she did as she was told, and followed Greg outside. Sherlock and John were next, with Sherlock putting his arm around John’s waist and putting his hand in his back pocket. 

That left Mycroft. He held his glass up, regarding the last mouthful sitting in the bottom; “…Drunken babies,” he sighed, and set the glass down, unfinished, before trailing after everyone else. 

Sherlock already had his lighter out, and held three sparklers between his fingers while John and Molly crowded around him as he lit them. And even though everyone was supposedly ‘Big’ tonight, he couldn’t help but warn them both to “Be _very_ careful,” as he handed them out. 

Behind them, Greg was setting up a line of bottle rockets in empty tin cans. “ ‘ey, can I borrow you lighter?” he called out, and Sherlock tossed it to him. “Thanks! You want me to light’em now?” 

“In a few minutes, Gregory,” Mycroft said, watching Sherlock approach him with a lit sparkler. “Let it get a bit darker first!”

“Happy New Year, brother mine,” Sherlock held it out with two fingers at arms’ length. 

“Not for another few hours, yet. You don’t want one?” 

“I don’t like them,” he answered. “They always spark off my wrist.”

Mycroft carefully took it from him. “You loved them as a child, though.”

“That I did, until one sparked on me and I dropped it on my bare foot.”

“Ahhh, yes, at the cottage,” Mycroft smiled fondly as he watched John and Molly waving their sparklers around like wands, crying “Obliviate!” and “Levi-OH-sa, not Levi-oh-SA!”. “You hated any kind of fireworks for a good while after that, I recall.”

“I’m still not all that fond of them now,” Sherlock frowned, rubbing his hands together from the chill in the air. “Nothing ever needs to be that noisy for any reason.”

“They don’t bother John…?” Mycroft mused, watching as Greg began to light the first of the bottle rockets. John and Molly were on the other side of the yard, thankfully, so he did not call for them to come back. 

“Oh God, no, he loves them now,” Sherlock was saying; “He hasn’t been afraid in a good, long while–”

## * _FsssssssSSSssss_ **P O P!** *

Sherlock flinched as the first rocket went whistling into the air and went off with a loud bang, sending showers of colorful sparks flying above their heads. 

Both John and Greg began to whoop and cheer as the next two rockets whizzed off with another set of loud bangs and sparks in quick succession, and Sherlock shaded his eyes with his hand as he watched. As much as he hated the noise, he still enjoyed the lights…as long as they stayed far way from–

“Oof!” he grunted, as Molly ran right to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, trembling. 

Mycroft dropped his sparkler and both brothers were on her in an instant, looking her over; “What, what happened? What’s wrong? Are you alright?! Did you burn yourself–?!” they fussed in turn, with Mycroft trying to look at her hands for possible burns and Sherlock attempting to get her to look up at him and tell him what was wrong. 

Another rocket went off, and Molly finally looked up and reached for Sherlock to pick her up, her eyes brimming with tears. 

Sherlock quickly picked her up and held her to his chest. “What happened, darling?!” he asked, still looking her over. 

“I’ds, i’ds, i’ds sh’o _y’oud!_ ” she cried, covering her ears with her hands when the next firework started it’s shrill whistle before taking off. 

“Aw, oh no,” Sherlock cooed, rocking her. “I know it is, poor thing…do you want to go back inside? Ye-es, we can go back inside,” he said, petting her hair as she nodded her head ‘yes’. 

Mycroft had relaxed once he realised that Molly was physically fine, if just a bit frightened, and watched as his little brother carried her back into the house, fussing and petting over her in a way that was eerily similar to how their father had done with him that time he’d burned his foot.

He smiled to himself. It was soon to be a whole new year, but there were some things that would never really change.


End file.
